Simple Physics
by AnihyrMoonstar
Summary: "Friction—the rubbing together of two objects, or the effort expended in moving one object over another with pressure," said Tucker. Dash considered this. "So friction is like…sex?" Dash/Tucker, SLASH; Fast porn, slow romance.
1. Friction

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Tucker, Dash, Danny, Sam, or anything else in the Danny Phantom TV series off of which this story is based, neither do I make any profit from writing dirty stories about them.

**A/N:** First and foremost, this is set in their _senior year_, making them all about seventeen or so, and it ignores the events of "Phantom Planet" because a.) I never saw it and b.) I want the whole super-hero thing to still be a secret (and it is).

This was originally a one-shot/experiment/random plot bunny that I started over two years ago. It has since then developed extravegantly into a full length story. Unfortunately, about half-way through I lost time and inspiration and, over a year-length gap, lost (not surprisingly) many many readers. Thus, I am giving this story another chance here, to see if there might be anyone interested. It's rated M for a reason; I'm not sure if it's too explicit or not, but from what I've read in some M fics, I hope not - I'll edit down if I get complaints or warnings, but please take this as a heads up and be mature. I'm not trying to scar innocent minds, really. That said, enjoy? ^^;

Warnings for this chapter: Language, sexual themes...

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**Chapter One:**

Friction

"Friction—the rubbing together of two objects, or the effort expended in moving one object over another with pressure," said Tucker, his voice a bored monotone as he recited from the text without so much as a spare glance in Dash's direction.

The football player scowled, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking his legs out onto the desk in front of him, tilting his chair onto its back two legs as he did so. It was almost four thirty. He'd been stuck listening to the geek ramble about physics for nearly an hour now, and it wasn't getting any easier. If anything, the things he said seemed to make less and less sense as time wore on.

"And what's that supposed to mean, Foley?" he muttered sourly, speaking up for the first time in at least half an hour. He'd been zoning out for most of it, but his "tutor" didn't seem to care much. "You expect me to believe friction is like…sex?"

Tucker's pen faltered on his paper, and a faint smirk tugged at Dash's lips. Finally, something that riled the kid; he'd begun to think he was sharing a room with a robot.

"Ohh, I'm sorry…I forgot," he crooned sarcastically. "Nerds don't have sex …so you wouldn't know, would you?" Behind his book, Tucker frowned, shifting slightly, but saying nothing. Dash's smirk grew. "You're really missing out, you know," he said, purposefully lowering his voice as he brought his chair down and leaned forward onto the desk. "Sex is like…well…like everything you said about friction or whatever…except a lot less science and a lot more…" He finished the sentence with several vulgar grunts and an exaggeratedly high-pitched moan. Tucker almost dropped his pencil, his brown skin not quite dark enough to hide a heavy blush, and for some reason, Dash's cock twitched at the sight.

With faintly trembling fingers, Tucker pushed his glasses up higher on his nose and set his book down, leveling his gaze determinedly with Dash's. "First," he said, "having a working brain between my ears does not automatically mean I know nothing about sex; second, yes, friction is involved during sex, as it is with almost any form of physical contact, but no, that is not the definition and third, I hope to God those last sounds weren't a reenactment of your last sexual escapade…unless you've been really busy fucking a dairy farm."

It was Dash's turn to blush. "Yeah, well," he stuttered awkwardly. "What would you know about it, huh?" he sniped. "I bet you've never gotten off in your life…cuddle your homework all night long…or do you masturbate to your textbooks? Maybe to that annoying PDA thing you carry everywhere?"

Tucker scowled, looking every bit the part of someone dying to say a great deal, but unwilling to stoop low enough to do so. "The last time I 'got off' is really none of your business," he said tightly, "especially since the point of this tutoring session is to pull up your abysmal grade point average, but if you'd really rather talk about the finer points of my sex life, then by all means, keep going. We only have a few minutes left anyway."

Dash crossed his arms, scowling. "If there were finer points in your sex life, Foley, you wouldn't be half as prissy about it. You don't know anything about getting off."

"Fifty bucks says I could bring you off faster than any girlfriend you ever had," muttered Tucker beneath his breath, his words so quiet that at first Dash thought he imagined it. Then, to his horror, he found himself trying to figure out how fast that was. Oddly enough, Paulina had actually timed them once.

After coming up with a number, Dash debated for all of two seconds before saying very clearly, "Four minutes, thirty-two seconds."

Tucker looked up sharply, obviously not expecting that answer, and Dash almost felt smug. Then, Tucker's gaze flickered fleetingly to the clock, and it really should not have turned Dash on the way it did. He was straight. He knew that. And besides, geeks were not hot—especially not when they drew their bottom lip between their teeth and worried it anxiously, or wet their lips and fidgeted in their seat…

"Deal," was all the warning Dash received.

For one terrifying second, he thought Tucker was going to kiss him, but then, he just yanked the chair around—with surprising force for such a small figure, Dash noted—and dropped to his knees. Dash's hormones went on a field day. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice whispered that he was about to lose fifty bucks, but he quickly squashed it. Tucker's hand was between his legs, providing glorious pressure to a straining lump in his jeans that definitely shouldn't have been there, and _oh_ he didn't want it to stop for the world. Swearing beneath his breath, Dash's hands moved to grip the sides of his chair, and he grit his teeth.

"You know," he panted, working very hard to keep from bucking outright into the palm currently drawing circles around his erection and only halfway succeeding, "I'm…mm…I'm very…straight…" When Tucker applied more pressure, Dash groaned, his head dropping back against the back of his chair and his body arching completely of its own accord.

"Hmm. Yes," said Tucker. "I can tell."

"S-shut up," growled Dash. The effect was slightly marred moments later when his snap gave with a quiet pop and long, dexterous fingers slid boldly down his pants, circling his erection without a hint of hesitation and drawing an almost keening whimper from the seasoned football player. "That…that's not fair," he whined.

"What's not fair?" asked Tucker, his hand giving a long, sure stroke to the heated flesh in his grip and simultaneously turning Dash's legs to Jell-O. "That you're gay?"

"I'm not-" Dash began, but then Tucker's spare hand undid his fly and there were two hands moving on him, shaping him with a sculptor's grace and the air in his throat burned and scratched like sandpaper on fire and he couldn't breathe and, "Fuck," he moaned, knuckles going white on the sides of his chair. "You…oh, shit, yes…_nngh_…not gay."

"Of course not," said Tucker.

From the standpoint of trying to keep himself in check, Dash picked a very bad time to open his eyes—perhaps the worst possible time, even—because he was straight, and watching a skinny, four-eyed, techno geek bring soft brown lips down around his cock absolutely positively should not have been the hottest fucking thing he had ever laid eyes on. When Tucker glanced up, some distant part of Dash's mind vaguely noted that the boy really had very pretty green eyes behind those nerdy glasses. Then, his world shattered and he jerked with a strangled cry, praying fervently that there was no one left in the school to hear him as he came—hard.

The aftershocks were slow to wear off. As he sat, shaking, in his chair, Dash wondered offhandedly if it was strange that the best orgasm of his life had taken place in a physics classroom. His mind was hazy and his body felt like very satiated silly putty, so he decided not to worry about it for the time being.

He looked up just in time to see Tucker spit in the wastebasket, and for some reason, the sight made him frown. Next time, he thought, he wanted to watch the boy swallow. The fact that he never questioned whether or not there would in fact be a 'next time' should have thrown up an immediate red flag. But it didn't.

"You might wanna zip that back up," Tucker commented as he walked back from the wastebasket to their study desk, running the back of his hand along his mouth and grimacing slightly. "Oh, and," Dash watched as he shoved his books haplessly into his backpack in one swoop, "two minutes and fifty-nine seconds." Tucker zipped his pack promptly and slung it over his shoulder before turning to face Dash, expression deadpan and unreadable as he said, "You owe me fifty bucks."

Dash watched his retreating figure with an odd fascination. He briefly considered mentioning that they'd never shaken on it, but then Tucker shut the door behind him with a click and he figured it was probably for the best anyway. Besides, it would be worth seeing the expression on his face tomorrow at school when he realized he would have to explain to his little nerd friends why Dash Baxter, of all people, was openly handing him a fifty-dollar bill in the hallway.

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**A/N:** What can I say, I like odd pairings? That, and I've always thought Tucker was waaay cute and Dash/Danny is overrated. Please review, let me know what you think. As I mentioned above, I already have much of this written, so I can promise nice steady updates (probably once a week) assuming there is interest and it doesn't turn out to be overly sexual for this site. (The next chapter is more tame, I promise...)


	2. Momentum

**A/N:** Whoo! Reviews!

**Chapter Rating: **T

**Chapter Two:**

Momentum

What had he been thinking? No, honestly, Tucker mentally scolded himself, what in God's name could he _possibly_ have been thinking? He shuffled his books to one arm and entered his locker combination, scowling only to himself. It wasn't that he was desperate; he knew that much. He didn't even want to be in a relationship—not really. And it wasn't that he needed money. Hell, there were certainly better ways if that were the problem.

Tucker sighed as he opened his locker and squinted up at its disarrayed contents. Dash probably got blown twenty times a day anyway, he thought sourly. Maybe he was throwing the whole thing out of proportion and needn't really worry about it. Somehow, the thought didn't make him feel better.

"Tucker!" He turned at the call, and Danny waved as he approached. "Hey, Tuck, what's up?" he said, flopping against the locker beside him with a clattering bang and grinning like a madman. "You look…" Danny expression faltered for the first time. "Actually, you look a little down," he said, frowning slightly. "You feelin' okay?"

Tucker debated. Lie through his teeth to avoid further questioning, or come up with a believable half-truth on the spot for a sympathetic ear? Just as he started trying to figure out how he possibly could turn 'I sucked off Dash Baxter yesterday in tutoring,' into a believable half-truth, Sam came to the rescue.

"Hey, Tucker," she said cheerily, coming up behind Danny and slipping an arm around his waist in a way that immediately explained his initial madman-in-love mood. Danny and Sam had finally made up. Again. "How did that tutoring thing go yesterday?"

Way to get to the point, Tucker thought mildly, trying not to frown as she tucked her chin against Danny's shoulder. "It was…interesting," he said, turning to his locker to politely avoid witnessing the not-so-discreet exchange of public affections going on between his two best friends. For some reason, it always made him uncomfortable to watch.

"Oh, yeah! I forgot you had that," said Danny. "So, is Dash as dumb as he looks, or dumber?" Sam elbowed him reprovingly, and Danny grunted. "Okay, okay!" he surrendered. "I was just asking…"

"Well-" Tucker began, but then, the topic of their conversation appeared across the hall, and he swallowed the rest of his sentence. Speak of the devil, he thought silently. In this case, a very tall, formidable looking blonde devil currently stalking towards them like a predator on the hunt. Perhaps Dash hadn't completely blown him off after all—excuse the innuendo.

"Foley!" Dash barked in a voice more than loud enough to carry across the room, and Danny and Sam looked up, apparently noticing him for the first time. "I believe," he said as he drew closer, "that I owe you something." His hand shook the locker as it came down inches to the left of Tucker's head, caging him in.

Tucker resisted the urge to gulp. "Oh?" he said, straightening his back and lifting his chin in his best impression of undaunted nonchalance. "Really?"

"Yeah," Dash purred, close now and grinning wickedly. "Really."

Tucker felt a stab of empathy for the cornered mouse and gave up on nonchalance. His new goal was to keep his knees from going out from under him. "And what is that?" he said, hoping his voice sounded braver than he felt.

"Deal's a deal, Foley," said Dash, waving something under his nose, and Tucker frowned.

"A…what?" Squinting, Tucker pushed up his glasses, trying to focus on the object dangled before him. When he succeeded, heat swept up his neck, and he silently cursed himself. He hadn't expected Dash to actually pay. "But…when I said that I…you don't really have to-"

"Oh, but I do," murmured Dash huskily, further invading Tucker's personal space with apparently no concern whatsoever for who saw. The smell of laundry detergent and cologne filled Tucker's senses, and his pulse did a double take. "I'm a man of my word, and besides…" His hand felt hot on Tucker's chest, pressing the air from his lungs and making one of the metal locker handles dig painfully into his back until he winced. "You _earned_ it."

Tucker mentally cringed at the phrasing. Whores "_earned_" money that way, and Dash was making sure he caught the implication. "Technically, I really more won it than earned it," he pointed out, more for his own benefit than Dash's. "It was a bet, after all, not a business transaction."

Dash snorted, but let up. "Yeah, well. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Foley," he muttered. This time when he waved the bill, Tucker snatched it, crushing it in his palm and hastily stuffing it in his pocket as if hiding evidence. Dash chuckled, and his stare sent a shiver down Tucker's spine. "See you in physics," was all he said before he turned and disappeared amid the bustling throng.

"Okay…" said Sam, looking utterly perplexed. "So what the hell was his problem?" she asked, glaring off down the hall in the general direction of Dash's disappearance. "And what was that he gave you, anyway? Tucker…?"

As she was talking, Danny had caught Tucker's eye, his expression concerned and questioning, but when she prompted him, Tucker broke from Danny's stare to look at her. "What? Oh…it's, umm…" Tucker's fingers crinkled around the bill in his pocket, and he frowned. "Fifty bucks," he said.

Sam's eyes went wide. "Fifty bucks? Tucker-"

The bell rang.

Tucker breathed a sigh of relief and shut his locker. "I'll tell you later," he said, and before either of his friends could protest, he fled into the masses in the direction of his next class.

The bell officially gave him until lunch hour to come up with a plausible excuse for winning fifty dollars off of Dash Baxter—something other than blowing him in under three minutes flat, that is. As he shouldered his way through the undulating stream of his fellow peers, Tucker felt confident he could think of something.

Six hours later, he was not quite so confident as he stepped into the virtually silent Casper High Library. After Dash had avidly assured their physics teacher that the last tutoring session had "blown him away," that the one on one action had had fantastic results, and that he thought Tucker had a lot of underappreciated talent he was sure he could benefit from, the teacher had jumped at the opportunity to keep them signed up for more sessions. Tucker, almost speechless by that point, had managed to insist that they at least move to the library, as opposed to a locked physics classroom—safer, he hoped, though he didn't explain his motives to their teacher. Now, he stood alone in the library, a large textbook clutched to his chest as he sought out a suitable base of operations.

Eventually, he settled on an empty table near the back of the room and moved to it, dropping his backpack beside it and opening his book to their most recent lesson. Since Dash had yet to arrive, he set in on the homework. He didn't have to wait long.

Less than a minute into the first problem, the front doors banged open with a raucous clatter that blatantly defied any and every "quiet" rule usually applied to libraries and boldly announced the arrival of his "pupil." Not for the first time, Tucker wondered what exactly he'd signed up for in agreeing to these sessions. Moment's later, Dash himself appeared, swerving around to the opposite side of the table and tossing his bookbag to the ground with a resounding thud, as if his arrival had not already been made adequately apparent by his brash entrance. Tucker frowned.

For lack of anything better to say, he muttered, "You're late."

Dash snorted. "And who's to say you're not just early?" he said, dropping into his chair and immediately stretching out to his full length, arms pulled over his head with a lazy yawn. "Eager for something?"

Tucker ignored the taunt and turned the page in his text. "Just get out your homework and turn to 309 in your book. We were discussing momentum today, so I figure that's the best place to start."

Dash groaned audibly. "You can't be serious," he said, honestly incredulous as he eyed Tucker's textbook like some vile creature from the black abyss coming to swallow his soul.

Tucker looked up. "About what?" he asked.

"You…you are, aren't you?" Dash concluded desperately. "You actually want me…to do my homework."

Tucker raised an eyebrow, stuck halfway between disbelief and amusement. "I thought it would be a logical place to begin, yes. Why? Did you have something else in mind?" Dash's eyes glazed slightly, and Tucker quickly rethought his wording. "One that involves actually learning _physics_?" he amended sternly.

"Last I heard friction _was_ a big part of physics, Foley," he goaded, and Tucker rolled his eyes.

"Look, if grasping the concept of these assignments was as simple as taking a face to the cock, you wouldn't be failing," Tucker stated bluntly. In fact, you'd probably be passing with flying colors. "But seriously, friction wasn't all that hard to understand in the end, was it?"

"Umm," Dash pondered, uncertain now that Tucker wasn't responding so flamboyantly to his jibes. "I…guess not?"

"Well, momentum isn't that complicated either. Here…" Tucker stood up, sliding his book across the table and turning it around to face them as he came up behind Dash, pointing to the first problem. "A point fifteen kilogram baseball moving at twenty-six meters per second is slowed to a stop by a catcher over the course of two tenths of a second. What is the force exerted on the catcher?"

If possible, Dash slouched further in his chair. "Why the hell do I care? It's a stupid baseball and he catches it…big whoop."

"Well, you can calculate impulse momentum by-"

"Can't you make it more…interesting?" Dash implored, dropping his head back to stare up at Tucker with pleading blue eyes—much harder to ignore than they should have been, Tucker noted absently.

"Umm…define interesting?"

Dash smirked. Before he could open his mouth, Tucker shook his head.

"Never mind. In that case…" He pursed his lips in thought. "How much do you weigh?"

"Uh…hundred eighty-five?"

"Okay…so that's…about eighty-three kilograms, since we're working with metric, call it eighty…" Tucker snatched a sheet of paper and a pencil. "How's this… An eighty-kilogram football player rams a…erm…fifty kilogram cheerleader…against a wall for thirteen seconds, over the course of which his momentum decreases from two hundred and sixty kilograms times meters per second squared…to zero. How much force has he applied to the cheerleader?"

Dash considered this. Finally, he said, "How am I supposed to get anything done in thirteen seconds?"

Tucker slumped against the back of the chair and dropped his head in his hands. "You," he muttered, "are hopeless."

"Hmph." Dash glanced back at the sheet of paper and lifted it up, inspecting the figures. After a moment, he turned to Tucker. "How much do you weigh?"

Tucker straightened back up, expression guarded. "Why?" he asked.

Dash shrugged, making a show of indifference as he re-read Tucker's sample problem. "Dunno," he said, not looking up, "maybe I'd rather ram you against a wall for thirteen seconds…"

Tucker opened his mouth, flushed, shut it, and frowned. "One hundred and twenty-two pounds…about."

Dash turned, startled. "Really?" His eyes ran the length of Tucker's frame, lingering occasionally on places that made Tucker's cheeks heat embarrassingly. When he reached Tucker's face, he grinned. "I could bench press you," he said matter-of-factly. "Almost twice over, in fact." He looked back to the paper. "How much is one-twenty in kilos?"

"That," said Tucker, "you'll just have to figure out for yourself."

"But-" Dash objected.

"One pound is approximately half a kilogram. You're a big boy; I'm sure you can figure it out," said Tucker, and with that, he turned, walking off towards the bookshelves.

"Hey, wait! Where are you going?"

Looking back over his shoulder, Tucker raised an eyebrow. "We're in a library. Where do you think I'm going? I need some new reading material." He continued off into the shelves. "Work on your homework," he called. "If you need me, I'll be in the science fiction section…"

As he disappeared among the columns of books, Tucker took the time to consider the oddity of his situation. He had chosen the library specifically for a peaceful, _populated_ place to study—someplace quiet, but busy enough to discourage, well, unprofessional self-distraction. As it turned out, it seemed the Casper High Library was abandoned as school on a Sunday, and though he was sure the librarian had to be lurking somewhere, or the place wouldn't be open, he hadn't seen a face but Dash's since he'd walked in. Deciding not to worry about it, he selected a promising cover from the shelf and opened it at random.

It wasn't terrific—not terrible, mind, but nothing to write home about. He was about to put it up when a rumbling voice growled, "I need you," hot against the shell of his ear, and he jumped, trying to spin simultaneously and nearly tripping over himself in the process. The end result was Dash with an arm on either side of him, trapping him to the bookshelf and grinning like a cat with the canary in its teeth. Tucker swallowed.

"Uh…you…you what?"

"You said," Dash reiterated patiently, "that if I needed you, you would be in the science fiction section. I'm having trouble with problem number three."

"O-oh…right," said Tucker breathlessly. "Well, okay, umm…" Dash had yet to let him up and he frowned slightly. "I…I can't exactly help if you don't-"

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Dash asked.

Tucker blushed. Well _that _was an abrupt change of subject. "Er, no," he said.

"Girlfriend?" Dash prompted.

Tucker sighed. "No," he repeated, this time more firmly. "I'm not in a relationship of any sort at this time. Happy? Now would you please-"

"Where did you learn to give head?"

Tucker's cheeks lit up like roman candles. "That," he retorted, abashed, "is really absolutely none of your-"

"I'm making it my business."

"You can't just-"

"You must have learned somewhere," Dash pressed, and Tucker's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"This," he hissed, "is sexual harassment."

Dash burst out laughing. "Oh, that's rich, Foley," he said. "And what was yesterday, huh? Friendly peer to peer bonding?"

"A bet and handjob, Baxter," Tucker snapped, glaring heatedly. "Now back off before I-"

"Before you what, Foley?" Dash purred, and Tucker went rigid. "Scream for the librarian?" Tucker bit his lip, fighting a shiver as hot breath trickled down the side of his neck. "I've got you by over sixty pounds and almost five inches. You're not going anywhere until I say so…"

"Like hell," Tucker panted, but it wasn't much of a threat because Dash's hand was pinning his hip, making heat pool in his gut and causing a good number of other reactions he'd rather not think about.

"I'll tell you what yesterday was," said Dash. "It was a bet, a handjob, a blowjob, and one hell of a fucking great orgasm."

Tucker swallowed. "I'm…flattered?"

"See a movie with me Friday."

"I-" Tucker cut off, utterly thrown. "Wait…_what_?"

"You heard me."

Tucker stared, too startled to express anything else as he searched Dash's expression for anything but seriousness. He found nothing. "You…you're asking me out?" he asked, beyond incredulous.

Dash's brow furrowed. "Well, when you put it that way, it sounds fruity…"

The word 'duh' lingered on the tip of Tucker's tongue for several long seconds, viciously tempting, but in the end, he let it go. Instead, he said, "I don't date guys."

"But you suck them off?"

"Well when you put it that way," Tucker muttered sarcastically, "it sounds fruity." When Dash glared, he sighed. "Speaking of fruity…I thought you were straight?"

"I am."

"Uh-_huh_…" Tucker eyed him over the rim of his glasses, squinting slightly and pursing his lips. "You're straight, I have twenty-twenty vision, the world is flat, and the moon is made of green cheese." He blinked several times and frowned, pulling off his glasses and rubbing them on his shirt before returning them to their rightful place on his nose. "Back up a bit, will you? You're fogging the lenses."

"You never answered my question."

"Well I can't very well help you without at least looking at the book-"

"Not _that_ question," Dash growled impatiently, and Tucker tilted his head.

"Oh? I just thought that since that _was_ the reason you came over here in the first place… Unless it wasn't?"

Dash scowled. "You have a one-track mind."

"So do you," Tucker countered.

Dash frowned, looking thoughtful. Finally, he said, "If I ace Thursday's physics test…will you go?"

"Ace it?" Tucker snorted. "At this rate, it'll be a miracle if you pass it."

"If that's true, then you don't have anything to worry about, do you?" Dash retorted, and Tucker frowned.

"Ace?" he repeated. "As in…an 'A'?"

Dash debated. "Umm…ace, as in….a 'C' or higher?" he offered tentatively.

Tucker rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. "No one will ever accuse you of not trying," he muttered.

"No one has ever given me this much trouble before," Dash admitted and again, Tucker snorted.

"Why am I not surprised?"

Dash grinned. "Because I'm blonde, blue-eyed, and drive a Porsche?"

"It was a rhetorical question," said Tucker.

"Mine wasn't."

"I told you," Tucker repeated, "I don't date guys…"

"It's not a date," said Dash. "It's…a planned outing…where we both happen to show up at the same theatre and mutually celebrate my first academic success since kindergarten. How's that?"

"I didn't know you had it in you," grumbled Tucker. Eventually, he sighed, eying Dash's looming figure doubtfully. "A 'C' or higher?" Dash nodded. "A movie Friday?" Another nod. "And it won't be some sappy, second rate chick flick thing with-"

"Foley-"

"Fine," said Tucker. "If you let me up, and we go over there and work on your homework, and by some miracle you get a 'C' or higher on the test Thursday…I'll happen to show up at the same theatre as you, Friday night. We can work out the details if and when it happens, okay?"

Dash grinned and backed off, holding out his hand. "Shake on it, Foley," he said.

Reluctantly, Tucker accepted the hand, and less than a second later emitted a startled yelp as it yanked him forward, bringing him chest to chest with the other and knocking him momentarily breathless.

"For the record," said Dash, "I was ramming you against the wall with a force of twenty Newton…and our masses were irrelevant since the formula required only the change in momentum and time, and you'd already given that."

Fuck.

As Dash released him and walked back towards the table, Tucker suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with cold, and put up his book. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice whispered that he had a date—no, a planned outing that in no way signified a romantic relationship—with Casper High's star quarterback Friday night, but he quickly silenced it. No need to get his hopes up.

**A/N: **Review, review! Pretty please? :D

So, yeah, guess this means Friday updates as a rule. Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed last round! They make me warm and fuzzy inside. :) And, just as a point of curiousity: I know many people were probably somewhat hesitant to even try this story, is it because of the pairing? Be honest; I'm just seeking to sate my curiousity. I have to wonder of I shoot myself in the foot by writing for odd couples sometimes. ;P

P.S. Holy fiddle...I just searched for ANY story on here with Dash and Tucker as the main characters...and yup, this is the only one. In response to the question of whether or not this is the only Dash/Tucker romance in existence.......it's not, because I know Rin Flowers said it used to be her favorite pairing; but I personally have never seen it, ever, anywhere. o-o Poor things. -pats Dash and Tucker-


	3. Variables

**Chapter Three:**

Variables

On Wednesday, Dash had a question.

"Hey, Kwan?" The clang and clatter of lifting weights rang in the background, but Dash deciphered a grunt of acknowledgement from amidst the clamor, originating from somewhere to his left.

"Yeah?" said Kwan, sounding slightly out of breath.

Dash pondered a moment before voicing his question, trying to choose his words carefully. "What would you say…defines gayness?"

"Uh…what?"

Obviously, it wasn't what Kwan had been expecting. "I mean, I'm not gay," Dash quickly clarified. "It's just…you know…I was wondering. Like…how would you really know?" He was on his back benching, but he'd lost track of his count a while ago. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kwan frown, the oriental sitting up and wiping his brow with a nearby towel.

"Um…I don't know, man," he said uncertainly. "I guess you just…know, right? I mean…if guys turn you on…"

"Guys don't turn me on," Dash snapped.

"I didn't mean-" Kwan flushed, but it might have just been the exercise. "I was just… You asked," he mumbled, sounding put out.

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Dash frowned. "Well, what if…like…just say…a guy sucked you off…"

Kwan grimaced. "That's kind of disgusting."

"Um, right, yeah," said Dash. "But…but I mean a mouth's a mouth, right?" he pressed anxiously. "I mean, it's just like a girl if…well, if you didn't know…there's really no… It shouldn't make a difference. Don't you think?"

Kwan looked doubtful. "Dash, man, are you alright?"

Dash blushed, but he hoped it looked like it came from the exercise. "Er, yeah," he said. "I think so. Why?"

"You…I don't know. You just seem…really worked up about this. Did, um," Kwan hesitated, "did a guy-"

"No," Dash lied.

For awhile, Kwan said nothing, and Dash drifted off into his own train of thought. Then, Kwan spoke up, and Dash glanced down from the ceiling to find his teammate looming over him with an odd expression.

"Um…did you say something?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Kwan. "I asked why you were only pushing one-twenty. You usually do almost twice that."

"Oh," said Dash. "Yeah. I um…I guess I was just…seeing what it felt like." Thankfully, Kwan didn't press the issue. Mentally he noted that Tucker was in fact very, very light.

-

On Thursday, Dash had a test.

"This is a comprehensive review of everything we've been over this quarter. Do your best. You may begin as soon as you receive your paper."

Dash wasn't paying attention. He couldn't breathe. Before him, the words and numbers on his paper blurred together into one dizzying black mass, threatening to consume him, and he wanted nothing more than to get up and run.

What had ever made him think he could do this?

He swallowed, fingers trembling as he reached for his pencil, almost dropping it twice, and he swore beneath his breath. Shutting his eyes, he forced himself to try and relax. Breathe slowly, he thought.

Why did this always happen to him?

He knew the stuff—he knew he did. He'd learned it, and it had made sense, and he had figured it all out, and then—then the test hit his desk and his mind died. He knew nothing. He was stupid again and everything the teacher wrote was meaningless gibberish scattered across pounded white tree pulp.

It wasn't fair.

Unable to face his paper, he lifted his head, eyes wandering the room in search of nothing in particular. All around him, his classmates mocked him; twenty-some-odd bodies hunched over their desks scribbling diligently. They knew this. They understood. They thought this was easy.

God, he hated them.

Then, his eyes landed on Tucker.

…if guys turn you on…

Hell. Dash dropped his head in his hands, pushing his hair back from his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut. Somewhere, deep, deep down in the hottest fiery chasms of hell, Satan was having a really good laugh right about now. He sighed. And then—then, to his abject shame and humiliation—he looked back at Tucker.

He didn't hunch like the rest of them, Dash noticed. And his pencil didn't stutter and jerk nervously across his paper, either—no. It scrolled: confident and self-assured, like its owner. Here, now, in this classroom, with his numbers, Tucker was in his element.

Dash rolled his pencil between his fingers idly, openly staring and _willing_ the boy to look up. Look at me, he thought fiercely, as if he believed that by concentrating hard enough, he could somehow bend Tucker to his bidding. Put your pencil down and look at me—see what a fucking mess you've made.

But he didn't look up.

Then, apparently, he came across a more challenging problem, and Dash watched with rapt fascination as a full brown lip disappeared between clean white teeth, Tucker's brow furrowing in thought.

Where had he seen that look before?

Tucker shifted in his seat, still worrying his lip. When he glanced to the clock, Dash's stomach clenched hotly, and he swallowed a groan, shutting his eyes as he suddenly remembered with vivid clarity _exactly_ where he'd seen that look before.

When he opened them again, Tucker was watching him. Right then, he almost snapped his head down—guilty and caught in the act—but at the last minute, he forced himself to hold the gaze. Tucker raised an eyebrow, and then—damn him—the boy _smirked_ at him. At him! Dash Baxter, of all people! It made him want to hit him, or kiss him or—no, wait, Dash thought, quickly backtracking—it definitely didn't make him want to kiss him.

As Dash pondered this egregiously erroneous notion, Tucker slid down in his chair, hand slipping down into his backpack in such a subtle move, he likely wouldn't have noticed had he not been staring the whole time. A moment later, Dash almost jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket, and his cheeks burned hotly as he prayed the teacher hadn't heard. He thought he'd turned it _off_?

Discreetly as he could manage, Dash, too, leaned back in his chair, working hard to look unsuspicious as he carefully slid out his phone, keeping it under his desk, and flipped it open. There, on the screen in glowing letters, was a single message. "Good luck," it read. Cursing the giddy flutter in his stomach, Dash promptly snapped the thing shut and stuffed it back in his pocket.

How the hell had Tucker gotten his phone number?

-

On Friday, well…

Dash stared at it. Just a bleached dead tree, he told himself. Just a bleached dead tree—with some very crucial numbers scribbled in red ink on the other side. He swallowed.

What if he'd failed?

The teacher was going around from desk to desk, handing back tests and putting them face down before their owners. Dash always hated it when they did it that way. Why torture kids like that? They were going to get whatever they got no matter when they found out. Why not just let them see it from the get go? What could possibly be the point of dragging it out, making them wait and stare until they finally couldn't wait anymore and just had to _see_. Dash reached for the corner of his paper.

What if he'd passed? What did that mean?

His fingers caught the edge and he shut his eyes, taking a breath. It meant Tucker had finally done what no teacher had ever really managed to do before—teach him something.

One, two, three—

Dash squinted at the red lettering, dreading what he might see. When he finally opened his eyes wide enough to read it, his stomach fell out from under him, his head swam, and for two whole seconds he forgot to breath. Then, he was grinning from ear to ear, dropping his head back against the back of his chair, and covering his mouth so as not to draw the attention of the entire class as he laughed, body shaking, overcome with relief.

Yes, he had passed—but it was more than that.

He, Dash Baxter, had succeeded at school. Sure, he'd passed tests before. Obviously, he never would have made it to his senior year—without ever being held back, mind—if he hadn't passed tests on occasion. But again, it was more than that. This time, he hadn't passed because his parents could pay to provide new computers for the math lab, or because he'd made that touch down just in time and Lancer figured one or two points from a D was really close enough in the long run, or because the teacher was pretty and young and Dash was born with natural good looks and charma. No. This time, he'd earned it—the _right_ way.

It felt really good.

Without even thinking about it, he looked up, seeking out Tucker almost instinctively, and a moment later he found him. There, on the other side of the room, in his desk—and _yawning_. He hadn't worried about his score for a second.

Somehow, though, Dash couldn't hate him for it—wasn't even jealous, in fact. Tucker looked good—with one hand fisted and stretched over his head, the other covering his mouth as he leaned back, utterly oblivious of the way his yellow shirt rode up on his dark stomach, teasing any who looked with a barely perceptible sliver of milky brown. How could Dash hate anyone who gave a show like that?

The bell rang.

Smirking only to himself, Dash grabbed his test and stood. The teacher was saying something about a lab on Monday and wishing everyone a good weekend as they piled out the door, minds closed to everything but thoughts of the weekend. Tucker was crouched beside his desk when Dash got there, rapidly stuffing papers away in a mad scramble, and Dash watched, bemused.

"So," he asked after a moment, trying to sound as casual as possible, "how'd you do?"

"Ninety-eight," said Tucker, snatching something from his desk and shoving it behind a folder in his backpack without so much as a sideways glance in Dash's direction. "I forgot to convert from centimeters to meters on problem seven and he counted off." Finishing with his backpack, Tucker zipped it quickly and stood. Then, finally, he met Dash's gaze. "You?" he asked.

Dash dropped his test on the desk, and Tucker's eyes flickered to the circled number in red. On seeing it, he smiled.

"So," he said, not missing a beat, "what movie did you have in mind?"

**A/N: **Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed so far! If you leave a signed review (especially with a question), I'll be sure to get back to you, and even if there isn't a question I'll probably at least send my thanks. I appreciate every one of them, so...tell me what you think! Please and thank you. :)

P.S. Sorry that this is a rather short chapter. ^^;


	4. Interference

**Chapter Four: **

Interference

Red, blue, green, white—pink? —Tucker frowned as he thumbed through his wardrobe, pausing at a faded, Easter-pink button-up he never before knew he owned. Mother must have snuck it in on him while he wasn't looking. Sighing, he pushed past it. Seriously, what the hell did one wear to a not-a-date movie date with a football player on Friday night? Green matched his eyes, but his glasses made it nearly impossible to tell. Blue was too dark. Pink was absolutely out of the question. Frustrated, he rubbed the back of his neck and shut his eyes.

If it wasn't even a date, did it even make sense to worry?

"Blee-beep!" his PDA called to him from his pocket, and Tucker fished it out, pushing aside his fashion woes for the time being in favor of his mysterious caller. As soon as he glanced to the screen, though, he groaned.

"White, green, and black," it read, and Tucker instantly scanned his room.

"Danny," he scolded, "where are you? Can't you ever just knock like a normal person?"

"Aww," the spectral voice of his best friend originated from somewhere by his window, and Tucker turned to face it, searching for any sign of movement to further betray his location. He found none. "But, Tucker," Danny whined, somewhere near his bed now, still nothing more than a bodiless voice, "that takes all the fun out of it. Besides," A cold chill swept through Tucker, something like stepping into an unexpected winter fog, and he suppressed a shiver, shutting his eyes as, moments, later, a very tangible, very _real_ Daniel Fenton solidified behind him, grinning ridiculously as he propped his chin on Tucker's shoulder and said seriously, "I'm _not_ a normal person."

"Fancy that," murmured Tucker, eyes still shut. "I never would have guessed."

"Hm." Danny's hum sent warm air whispering across his goosebumped flesh. "You smell good," Danny informed him, "like…soap and hot water. Can I take this showered state and frantic wardrobe search to mean that Tucker Foley _finally_ got himself a date?"

Though sorely tempted to retort, Tucker forced himself to ignore the question. "Hot water has a smell?" he asked instead. Anything to get Danny off the subject of dates—and hopefully off his neck, too, because tonight he had a deal to settle with Dash, and as non-romantic, non-date-like an occasion as it was, it still wouldn't do to be dreaming up lascivious, never-will-happen-in-a-million-years fantasies about phantom superheroes the whole time.

"Yes," said Danny, matter-of-factly, "it usually smells like soap."

Tucker resisted the urge to groan. "Danny, really, what are you doing here?"

"Me? Why, I thought that was obvious." Finally, _finally_, Danny got off his neck, and Tucker thought he might collapse from relief. "Your fashion sense is absolutely atrocious," said Danny, sauntering to Tucker's closet and surveying the selection with the air of a practiced merchant on the lookout for the only the best of the best, "So, naturally, being the well-renowned good-deed-doer that I am…I decided to lend you my keen eye for such things. Unless of course," Danny paused with his hands on a pristine, snow-white turtleneck, "you _don't_ want to lose your virginity tonight?"

Tucker flopped back onto his bed with all the abounding grace of a rucksack tossed on a baggage lane and glared up at the ceiling, shamelessly blaming it for his every teenage quandary. "You and I," he grumbled, "both know I'm not a virgin."

Still in his closet, Danny shrugged. "S'pose it depends on your definition," he admitted, "but…unless you've been engaging in scandalous acts I have yet to be made aware of…" Suddenly, Tucker became vividly aware of a strong sense of irking vulnerability associated with lying flat on your back while someone loomed anywhere between three and five feet above you—in mid-air. Then, Danny drifted down to sit, cross-legged, on the bed beside him, and Tucker felt better. "You're still a virgin by my definition."

"Oh?" said Tucker, knowing he should just drop the subject and wishing he could, "And why is that?"

"Because," Danny said quietly, leaning over him and hovering so close Tucker felt his breath on his face and the warmth of his body heat and, "you've never been fucked, have you, Tucker?"

Somehow, Tucker thought answering cognitively might have been easier if it weren't for the fact that he was prone on his bed, pinned under and staring helplessly up at the first person he'd ever kissed, the only person he'd ever fallen in love with, and the one person in the world he knew for sure he could never _ever_ have because Danny was in love with Sam, and Sam was in love with Danny, and Danny was straight—deep down—and Tucker knew that, and he respected that, but it really did nothing to keep him from dreaming and wishing he was going to the theatre with Danny tonight instead of Dash and that Sam would up and disappear from the world as they knew it and they could both just live happily ever after and—

"You haven't, have you?" Danny prompted worriedly, apparently misinterpreting Tucker's mingled expression for something else entirely.

Drawn from his daze, and Tucker frowned. "Oh," he said, "no. No, I haven't."

Danny grinned. "Good," he said. And then he went intangible, phasing through Tucker and the mattress like water through a sieve and landing with a thud on the floor beneath the bed a moment later. Tucker was ninety-nine percent certain Danny's lips had passed through his on the way down—and ninety-eight percent certain he had done it on purpose. Swearing, Tucker rolled to the side of his bed and sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to banish a headache.

"Did you break up with Sam again?" he asked after a moment.

Under the bed, Danny shuffled slightly, then coughed, probably stirring up dust with his movement. "Why?" he mumbled eventually, the indistinct question only further muffled by his secluded position.

_Because you only bother with me when Sam won't bother with you_, Tucker thought sourly. A moment later, he groaned guiltily. "Because…I…" He shook his head and sighed. "Never mind. I guess I was just wondering, is all."

A long pause followed, proceeded by, "I've never broken up with Sam, Tucker. You know that."

Oh. Right. Tucker walked to his closet. Danny never broke up with Sam; Sam broke up with Danny. Why the hell anyone with half a brain would ever dream of breaking up with Danny, Tucker couldn't fathom, but that was always how it happened. He thumbed through his wardrobe, not even glancing at the contents.

"Sorry," he said. "I forgot."

"It's alright," said Danny, "I forgive you." The second part of the sentence came from directly behind him, and Tucker's fingers trembled as he traced over the turtle-neck Danny had picked out earlier, fighting so hard not to lean back—just a little—and succumb to the heat of Danny's body. "Don't wear that one," Danny murmured, and Tucker blinked, dropping his hand.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because," warm breath teased Tucker's throat as Danny stepped forward, bringing his chest up flat against Tucker's back and trailing his hand from Tucker's chin, along his jaw, and down to his shoulder, "it'll cover your neck."

"Oh," Tucker breathed, swallowing dizzily, "okay."

For ten precious seconds, they stood like that, unmoving. Then, Danny asked, "When does your date get here?" and Tucker shook himself back into reality.

"I'm…umm…it's…fuck." Tucker pulled away from Danny, knowing he'd never get anywhere otherwise and rubbing his neck as he fought to clear his head. "It's not…officially…a date, really," he said finally. "It's more of a…planned outing." Danny raised an eyebrow. "I'm meeting them there. That is, we're not going together. But we'll be there together, obviously…when we get there…I mean…but…it's not like it's…well…" Tucker's words trailed off and he frowned, rather unsatisfied with the way that had turned out.

Smiling in an unforgivably knowing way, Danny rolled his eyes and dragged out a pair of dark jeans from Tucker's closet. "I thought you didn't date guys, Tucker?" he teased, and Tucker's cheeks went dark, glasses nearly falling off as he scrambled to catch the pants that came flying at him a moment later.

"I _don't_," he insisted, though he had to admit to himself it wasn't very convincing as he fumbled to resituate himself, shifting the jeans to one arm and shoving his glasses back into place with the other. "And, what makes you assume it's a guy anyway?"

Danny snorted. "Honestly, Tucker, how dumb do you think I am?" Tucker decided it was probably a rhetorical question. "First, you're blushing like the Virgin Mary staring down a dildo. Second, no guy gives two-pence about what he wears on a date with a girl because it's his job to do the seducing there, not look worthy of being seduced, and third…if it were a girl, Tuck, you would have told me every detail by now, recounting everything from the smell of her perfume to the color of her nail polish, and the very first thing I would have heard…was a name. I have no name, no details, and not only have you avoided even admitting it's a date, but you've also carefully managed not to specify a gender one way or the other."

Point taken, Tucker thought begrudgingly.

"So, that being said," Danny tossed him a shirt and jacket, and this time, Tucker caught them smoothly, "who's the lucky guy?"

Tucker poked at the jacket collar. "Does really it matter?"

Danny looked up. "Of course it matters."

Tucker frowned. "Why? I mean…it's really nothing serious, Danny, I swear. It's just…it's practically nothing. Why do you care?"

Danny studied him. "Because I _care_, Tucker," he said finally, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because I care about you and what happens to you and…I'd never forgive myself if…" He trailed off, pursing his lips with a dissatisfied expression, then ultimately finished with, "I just don't want you to get hurt, okay?"

Tucker observed the display curiously. "Always the hero," he murmured finally.

"Tucker-" Danny objected, but Tucker cut him off.

"Look, I promise not to do anything stupid. Okay, Danny? I hardly foresee any danger, but if things head seriously downhill, I'll pull out. I'm taking my own car," His mom's car, technically, but that was beside the point, "and I'm bringing my cell. It'll be a populated theatre in a lighted mall and…I know how to take care of myself. If it makes you feel better, I'll leave my cell on, and promise to call you if anything goes wrong, alright?"

Danny blushed. It was kind of cute, actually. "You promise?"

"Yeah," said Tucker, "I promise."

"Um…okay. Well…I guess I should let you go then…but Tucker?"

"Yeah?"

"You…you know I'm not jealous, right?"

Jealous? What reason could Danny possibly have to be jealous? Danny had everything. And yet, Tucker couldn't imagine why he'd even mention it unless… "Yeah. Right," he said, suddenly not so sure.

"Good," said Danny. "Oh, and one more thing…"

"Yeah?"

"You need to change out of those clothes anyway, right?"

"Er…" Something told him he wasn't going to like where this was going. "I…guess…so…but, Danny, what-" But Danny was already standing before him, lifting a hand to touch his forehead, and before he could object, a chilly, tingling feeling swept Tucker's body, turning him momentarily intangible. It took him several seconds to realize Danny had neglected to do the same for his clothes, and all but his boxers had phased through his insubstantial body to the floor below in a moment's notice. Instantly, heat flooded his face, but by the time he managed to open his mouth, Danny was already sinking through the floor.

"Have fun, Tucker," he said, and then, he was gone.

Left alone in his room, Tucker scowled and stepped out of the hapless heap on his floor, muttering, "Show-off," to no one in particular before proceeding to dress in the outfit Danny had laid out.

Twenty minutes later found him downstairs and dressed with wallet in hand, snatching the car keys from a hook beside the door on his way out. His mother's call of "Tucker, is that you?" caught him halfway into closing it behind him, and he cursed, seconds from freedom. Sighing, he stepped back into the house.

"Yeah," he said. "I was heading to the mall." He fingered the keys in his palm, listening to them clink. "Can I borrow the car?"

"Baby, why…what are you doin' going to the mall at this hour?" his mother asked, puzzled, walking out of the kitchen with her hands wrapped in a dishtowel. "Are Sam and Danny going too? And-" She stopped—so abruptly, in fact, that Tucker took an uncertain step forward, concerned. Then, she hastily tossed the dishtowel back in the kitchen. "Tucker, honey, don't you move a muscle…I'll be right back." And with that, she disappeared, scurrying off down the hall and leaving Tucker clueless at the front door.

After a few moments of listening to his mother scramble, mumbling and muttering as drawers opened and closed, she finally reemerged, and Tucker got a sinking feeling in his stomach as she approached, eying her right hand warily. Even from a distance it looked like…and as she drew closer it looked more and more like…and when she finally arrived his face became several shades paler because it now seemed undeniable that his mother was actually bringing him-

"_Condoms_?" Tucker squeaked, beyond mortified. "Mom…this isn't…I'm not…I wasn't even…"

"Just in case, honey," she soothed. "Better safe than sorry."

"But," Tucker stuttered, "you don't understand…it's…I…" His cheeks and neck burned as his mother stubbornly pressed the gold plastic wrappers into his palm, and he gave her a desperate, forlorn look. "Do I really need _four_?"

His mother shrugged. "If you're anything like your father…"

Tucker went a sort of sickly pale, brown-green color, and nearly tripped over his own feet in an attempt to half-run backwards out the front door. His mother waved cheerily as he fled to the car, and he grimaced, still trying to clear the unwanted images from his head as he stuffed the key in the ignition and pulled on his seat belt. A cynical part of him wondered if she'd said that _just_ to ruin his sex drive, and therefore remove the need for those "just in case" condoms. Somehow, he doubted it. Even _his_ parents weren't that naïve.

He spent the five-minute drive to the mall flipping through radio stations and trying hard not to think about his mother, or the condoms, or Danny, or what his breath smelled like, or what Dash would look like when he got there. All in all, he thought he did a pretty crappy job. He needn't have worried, though. When he pulled into a parking spot outside the mall and stepped out, it took no effort to locate Dash, propped up against a pillar by the front entrance, hands in his pockets and blonde head tilted back in lazy repose, and with that one look, Tucker forgot about just about everything—except, unfortunately, the condoms.

In fact, something about looking at Dash made it frustratingly difficult to think about anything _but_ those annoying, square pieces of gold-wrapped plastic now shoved deeply into the far reaches of his back pocket, and as Tucker approached his unofficial, movie-going companion, he wondered if his mother might have known more about teenage male hormones than he'd given her credit for.

**A/N: **Thanks to Unknown20troper for the review. Anyone else?? Sorry, I know I'm getting at least a few hits on this, but it makes me wonder when I have no one else on the review board (especially when I know Unknown is already reading far past chapter four...). Has anyone possibly cheated and skipped on to watch my AFF account for updates already? Or maybe people have just lost interest. Meh. Well, anyway, tell me what you think. I'll keep updating it here for whoever's reading, but I'd still love feedback. :)


	5. Contact Force

**Warning:** Chapter not work safe; definitely a solid _M _this time (language, sexual themes, etc.…)

* * *

**Chapter Five:**

Contact Force

Very _discreetly_, Dash checked his watch for the third time in the past minute. Discreetly because he was not anxious and didn't want anyone happening by to think he was, and for the third time in the past minute because it was two minutes and thirty seven seconds past seven, making Tucker officially two minutes and thirty seven seconds _late_. Forty-eight seconds, now. Not that he cared, of course, or that he was really paying all that much attention, but one would think he'd at least have the decency to call, or text, or—

"You look nice, this evening," Tucker commented, and Dash jumped, unsuccessfully trying to cover it with a slight swagger at the end and frowning at Tucker's amused expression.

"You're late," Dash accused.

Tucker raised an eyebrow. "By," He checked his watch, "twenty-three seconds?" he asked. Dash opened his mouth, fully prepared to correct him, then reconsidered and shut it again, deciding it might give the wrong impression. "Besides," said Tucker, "who's to say you're not just early?" His smirk was unforgivable. "Eager for something?"

"Watch it, Foley," Dash growled, but it held little menace. He was finding it hard to concentrate. Tucker looked—well—he looked good. Really, really good, and it was distracting. After several seconds of unsuccessfully trying to glare at _and_ mentally undress him simultaneously, Dash begrudgingly gave up on glaring.

A lightweight, forest green jacket covered most of Tucker's upper body, baring nothing but a small triangle of tempting cinnamon right at the collar, and a sudden urge to know exactly what that triangle _tasted_ like spurred Dash into moving his gaze onward. Dark, almost black jeans hung loosely about lean legs and yet somehow managed to cling in all the right places, making Dash wonder if they defied the laws of physics. When he caught himself wondering if they would fall off easily when unbuttoned, or hug the skin, he opted to look up instead. For once, that silly red beret was nowhere to be found, revealing countless rows of tight, ebony braids in its place, and Dash wondered what it would feel like, to slide his hands back over that dark hair, catch the loose ends in his fingertips and drag Tucker close until he could taste his breath on his lips and—

"Who dresses you?" he asked sharply, desperate to distract himself.

Tucker chuckled, green eyes dancing with mischief as he shook his head, glasses glinting under the artificial lights. "A fashion-conscious ghost that haunts my bedroom," he said, sounding oddly serious. "Do you approve of his style?"

Dash hoped the dim light hid his blush as his eyes were drawn, once more, to that little 'v' of bare skin at Tucker's throat, and he shifted awkwardly. "Uh…yeah…it's," he swallowed. "You're…good." Good? Fuck.

At least Tucker had a nice smile. "Thanks," he said. "Shall we?" he asked, pointing towards the mall entrance, and Dash blinked.

Oh. Right. The movie.

"Yeah, sure. Um…good idea."

"I thought so," said Tucker, still grinning as he headed towards the door, and Dash watched him go. After noting—to himself alone—that Tucker had a very, very nice arse, he followed suit.

They walked side by side through the mall, about a foot apart, with hands in their pockets and heads turned just about everywhere—except towards each other. Dash noted the opening of a new dance studio across the way from a men's shoe store that was apparently closing down and wondered what it would be like to take a dance class. Then he wondered if Tucker could dance, or if he even liked to dance, and tried—rather unsuccessfully—to imagine what kind of music he might like. He was still pondering that when they arrived at the theatre. There, Tucker's voice drew him from his reverie.

"Hey, Dash?" Tucker called, waving a hand in front of his face and prompting him to look up. "You never told me what movie we came to see," he said, one elbow propped on the ticket counter and wallet in hand as he waited for Dash's reply. As the facts sank in, Dash frowned.

"Oh, right, umm…" He pushed forward to come beside Tucker, fishing in his own pockets as he scanned the running times of current shows. "How about…that 'Bourne' thing…the third one…'The Bourne Ultimatum'?"

"That's fine with…wait…you haven't _decided_ yet?"

Dash shrugged, finally locating his wallet and pulling out sufficient fees for two tickets. "I guess I never really thought about it," he admitted.

"You invited me…three days ago…and you never even _thought_ about what you wanted to see?" Tucker repeated, incredulous.

"Uh…yeah?" Was it really that hard to believe?

"But," Tucker sputtered, "that doesn't even…you can't just…how on _Earth_…"

"Look," said Dash, facing Tucker with as frank a stare as he could manage without laughing outright at the boy's utterly befuddled expression, "I wasn't really thinking much about the movie when I asked you, I'm not really thinking much about the movie now, and I kinda never planned on thinking much about the movie…ever…so it didn't seem all that important. Besides…it's not like we're going to actually watch it…"

Dash turned to the ticket lady, about to pay when Tucker caught his hand with a hasty, "Wait," and Dash paused, suddenly entranced by the long, smooth fingers placed so carelessly over his own. "I was…I was going to pay for some of that," Tucker said, and Dash gave him an odd look.

"I asked you here," he said.

"Yeah, but," Tucker withdrew his hand, blushing faintly, "I accepted under the pretense that I would be paying for at least my half. I mean we specifically agreed it wasn't…wasn't going to be…"

_A date_. The words lingered, unspoken, on his tongue, and Dash snorted, shrugging it off and turning back to the ticket counter. "Doesn't matter," he said. "I made the offer, so I take the check."

Tucker still looked on the verge of objecting, but in the end he didn't, so Dash paid for them both and received their tickets. When he passed Tucker his ticket, his fingers lingered just a moment longer than they needed to, but if Tucker noticed, he didn't object to that either, and they both walked into the theatre about a foot apart, with their hands in their pockets, and smiling. Dash decided to ignore the look given to them by the ticket lady as they passed.

"So," said Tucker, sparing a brief, wistful glance towards the concession stands as they bypassed them, "if not for the movie, why the theatre?"

Dash eyed him critically as they ascended a short flight of steps. Wasn't Tucker supposed to be the smart one? Glowing billboards identifying the current showing in each room provided the only light for the hallway that followed, making for a rather dim passage, but, apparently, not dim enough to hide his expression, because Tucker rolled his eyes a moment later.

"That's not…oh, you're hopeless," Tucker grumbled. "I meant…if you really didn't plan on paying any attention, why not pick someplace…I don't know…less…_public_?"

Dash snorted. "Would you have ever said yes if I'd asked you to climb in the back of my car armed with lube and a condom?"

Tucker almost tripped, and Dash caught his shoulder, steadying him before he let go.

"Exactly," he said.

"But-"

"Here we are." Dash snatched Tucker's arm again, this time earning himself an abrupt yelp as he yanked the smaller figure, stumbling, into their designated theatre.

Unfortunately, it was nearly twice as dark inside as it was in the hall, and, caught unawares, Dash himself nearly tripped on entering. That, of course, led Tucker, already off-balance, to run flat into him, and moments later they both went sprawling. The end result was a confusing tumble and tangle of limbs ending in an awkward collision with a chair in the first row.

Dash grunted painfully. "Ouch," was the grand sum of his woes.

Under him, Tucker gave a curt snort, wriggling discontentedly and causing some unidentified bony part of his body to dig into Dash's thigh. "Very smooth," he snarked sarcastically, breathless and sounding more than a tad on the agitated side. "Was that all part of the plan? Or did it just sort of happen in a spur of the moment kind of thing?"

Dash groaned, partially because his left rib hurt like hell and partially because Tucker was still squirming against him, and breathing down his neck, and fuck—was that Tucker's _knee_ between his legs?

"I…accident," he muttered rather inarticulately, and Tucker huffed in disbelief.

"Oh?" he countered harshly. "And I'm sure the exact same thing would have happened if we'd just walked into the theatre like normal people? Slowly and calmly and-" Tucker cut off abruptly, and Dash felt him stiffen. Apparently, the effects of their close proximity on Dash's anatomy had finally caught his notice. "Well," he observed a moment later, suddenly far too smug for Dash's tastes, "at least we know some parts of you made it through unscathed."

Dash growled, opening his mouth with every intent of making some snappy retort, when the knee between his legs shifted—just enough to make it impossible to ignore—and any possible comeback melted into the dark abyss. The resulting, rather undignified jumble of, "_OhfuckTuckershutup_," earned him an amused snort from his companion, much to his chagrin.

"Yes, well, as lovely as it is that you appreciate my oozing sexual appeal and all that-"

"Tucker-" Dash hissed warningly.

"-you are kind of crushing me at the moment. So if you don't mind, I'd really appreciate it if you'd back…up…" Tucker emphasized the words with several encouraging nudges in the right direction, and, after gritting his teeth at the unwanted constraints movement put on various regions of his body, Dash complied with the request.

Taking a step back, he winced as he shifted awkwardly, trying to achieve a temporarily acceptable arrangement until his dilemma faded. At least a glance in the right direction confirmed that Tucker had not undergone the ordeal totally unaffected either, and it soothed his nerves to an extent.

"You know," Tucker commented, eyeing Dash with an odd air of reevaluation, "I think that's the first time you've called me by my first name." The comment caught Dash off guard, and he blinked, wondering if that could be true. "It's kind of nice, actually," Tucker said, tugging down the front of his jacket—slightly upset by their escapade—and shoving his hands in his pockets as he pushed up off the back of the chair and started towards the door. "You should try it more often."

"Oh," said Dash, still flustered and entirely unsure of what to make of the statement as he watched Tucker go. "Okay." Then, the fact of his departure sank in and a startled, "Hey, wait!" escaped Dash just in time to halt Tucker at the door. "Where, um…where are you going?" he asked.

"Concessions," Tucker said plainly.

"Con…oh…but, why?"

Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Because," he said, "due to your impeccable planning, we still have fifteen minutes before the movie starts, and frankly…I'm starving. Besides, no one in their right mind goes to a theatre without purchasing at least one extra-grande-sized bucket of buttered popcorn."

"But…" Dash frowned. "Alright," he conceded, "but here…" After a moment of scrounging in his pocket, he came up with what he wanted produced a crinkled bill, holding it out to Tucker. "Take this." Before Tucker could object, he added, "And if it makes you feel better, get me something too."

Tucker's fingers closed reluctantly over the bill as Dash thrust it in his palm, and he eyed it distrustfully, as if it might leap up and attack him at any moment. Finally, he looked back up to Dash. "You sure?" he asked, and Dash rolled his eyes.

"Look, if I can chock up fifty for a bet I didn't even shake on, I think I can handle twenty for some popcorn and soda pop, okay?" If nothing else, watching Tucker's eyes widen fetchingly at the reminder of that first fifty made it well worth it in Dash's opinion, and he smiled. "Just get me a diet coke, alright?"

Tucker frowned. "A…_diet_-"

Dash clamped a hand over his mouth. "_Yes_, a diet coke, Foley…Tucker." He felt Tucker's cheeks heat under his palm, and his stomach fluttered. Immediately, he withdrew his hand, hoping the darkness hid his own blush. "Just…just get it, okay?"

Tucker grinned. Damn him for that grin. "Aye, aye, cap'n," he said, and disappeared out the door.

For a time, Dash just stood there, staring—not thinking, per say, because, honestly, his notions at the moment were far too tangled to be considered rational thought—but looking and wondering. Finally, he sighed, shifting a hand back through his hair with a puzzled frown and turning to walk back towards the aisles in search of a seat. How a bet and a blowjob had landed him in a movie theatre with Tucker Foley on a Friday night was completely beyond him at this point, but one thing was for sure: he was having a hell of lot better time then he'd ever had with Paulina, or Star, or Ashley, or—hell, any girl he'd ever dated—and the worst part was, the movie hadn't even started yet.

Locating a seat, he flopped down gracelessly and instantly kicked his legs out before him, slouching back with a very emasculate pout as he let himself wonder for the first time if there was even the teensiest, tiniest little whisper of a chance that he might, possibly, be just a tiny bit—well—gay. He shuddered to think, and quickly stomped the thought flat, mentally scolding himself for letting the idea get even that far. Of course he wasn't gay. Not, he, Dash Baxter, captain of the football team, king of Casper High. No way. He was just—

"Miss me?"

Dash jumped, coming dangerously close to landing himself with a lap full of soda and popcorn in the process.

"Hey, now!" Tucker countered, retreating in defense of—Dash's jaw dropped.

"You plan on _eating_ all that?"

The mere fact that he had somehow managed to make it to their chairs with such a load was surprising enough. With the aforementioned "essential" extra-grande-sized buttered popcorn bag tucked under one arm, a huge diet coke in the other, and a box of nachos, two bags of M&Ms and—was that cotton candy?—miraculously woven into other various parts of his grasp, Tucker looked like a walking candy stand. From the look on his face, though, Dash concluded that he did, in fact, plan on consuming it all.

"But…you're so…_small_," Dash persisted with no thought to tact as he stared incredulously at Tucker's slim frame weaving its way between the chairs towards him.

"Oh?" Tucker inquired, pressing his back to the chairs on the next aisle and raising his bundles of goods as he slid past Dash to the next seat, "And am I to take that as a compliment?"

Dash shrugged, making a quick sweep for the popcorn as Tucker went by but missing by inches when Tucker leaned just out of reach at the last second. Dash scowled. "How should I know?" he grumbled, eyes lingering longingly on the popcorn. "It's just the truth."

Tucker snorted, flopping into his seat with a similar air to that of Dash minutes before and propping his legs up on the back of the chair in front of him. "Yeah, well," he said, strategically arranging his newly-purchased horde in a scattered circle about him, "your long string of ninety-pound, lipstick-laden, short-skirted ex's might have appreciated references to their borderline-anorexia, but for a guy, 'small' isn't exactly a flattering term. Besides," He wriggled lower in his seat, plucking a single golden kernel from the bag now tucked securely in his lap and popping it neatly between his lips with far more delicacy than Dash deemed necessary for sensible popcorn consumption, "I like to think of myself as reasonably _well_ endowed, thank you very much."

It was about that time that Dash began to wonder if they were still talking about the same thing. Then, something clashed loudly on the movie screen, and he forgot to ask, too busy trying to decide how the movie could have started without his noticing—it appeared to be several minutes in already. Go figure.

On screen, Matt Damon—or "Jason Bourne" as the script called him—was busy ferrying some mousey journalist through a giant crowd in what appeared to be an airport while a very fit looking gunner—a bad guy from the looks of things—set up to take them out from an air duct.

"It's no wonder this theatre gets lousy business," Tucker murmured around a mouthful of popcorn, distracting Dash from the film drama. "The acoustics on this room are awful, and their lighting fixtures need some serious work. See how the left corner of the screen flickers every now and then? Something's up with the projector."

Dash watched Tucker lick butter from his fingers and frowned. "Don't people normally talk about how much the _movie_ sucks? As opposed to, you know, the…sound system…or whatever?"

Tucker blinked up at him, sucking an M&M into his mouth with a quiet 'pop,' before shrugging and glancing back to the movie. The glowing screen cast a dancing contrast of light and shadow across his features as his lips worked their way blindly around the soda straw, and slurped.

"Dunno," he said eventually. "Those're just the things I notice, I guess." Several seconds later, he came to the bottom of the cup with a loud squelch and pouted. "Dang," he muttered, holding it out before him and frowning as if that might miraculously fill it back up. A moment later, he sighed, rearranging his popcorn and other goods to the next seat before standing. "I'll be right back."

When Tucker went to shuffle past his chair to get out, however, Dash blocked his path. "At this rate, you'll be up and down for half the movie going to take a piss," he said. "You drank practically that whole thing by yourself."

"I did not!" said Tucker.

"I barely got any!" Dash argued. Several 'shh!'s erupted from several rows down, and Tucker glared narrowly.

"And whose fault is that?" he hissed, voice barely above a whisper. "If you want more, you'll just have to suck faster next time."

"I'll never get any if it's a sucking contest!" Dash hissed back, almost as quiet, and Tucker's hand shot out so quick, he only just caught it in time. "Temper, temper," he scolded, grinning at Tucker's scowl.

"If you wanted more, you could have just asked," Tucker sulked.

"Yeah? Alright," Dash said. He tugged sharply at Tucker's wrist, eliciting a startled protest as the smaller body jerked forward, and bringing them nearly forehead to forehead the next instant. This close, Tucker's breath smelled of chocolate and theatre butter—an odd, strangely fascinating juxtaposition of salt and sweet that made his blood pound just a little faster in his veins. "I want more," he said, and Tucker's breath quivered across his lips.

"Are we…still talking about coke?" he asked, and Dash's mouth twitched with the faintest hint of a smirk.

A scant three inches more, and Dash could have tasted those lips—the chocolate and the butter, slippery and hot and smooth against his own—but he reined the urge. "Do you want to keep talking about coke?"

"Not," Tucker swallowed, and Dash watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat, "not particularly."

"Hn." Keeping Tucker's wrist firmly clasped, Dash brought it to the armrest beside him, and Tucker shuffled, awkwardly balanced with one knee on the chair and one foot on the floor. "Good," he murmured, "neither do I."

"Dash-"

"Why'd you do it?" he asked.

"I…" Tucker's pulse stuttered against his fingertips. "It…seemed like a good idea at the time?" he offered up hopefully. Dash raised his eyebrows; Tucker sighed. "Because I could," he said eventually. "Because I was pissed at the physics teacher for making me share a room with you and pissed at you for making assumptions about me and I wanted to prove a point."

"What point?" Dash flicked his thumb over the underside of Tucker's wrist experimentally and smiled when it induced a shiver.

"I…I don't quite remember, actually," Tucker replied, voice faintly breathy, and Dash made a mental note: Tucker had sensitive wrists. "Probably something along the lines of: 'Smart kids have hormones too' or…'Geek does not equal boring and predictable'… It might have had more to do with the fact that I really didn't expect you to follow up on it, though, and that I wanted to see the look on your face when I offered…and…you kinda looked halfway hot that day, too…despite being bored sick and royally ticked at me and all…but-"

"Only halfway?"

"Well, I was trying pretty hard not to think of you as 'hot'," Tucker defended. "You were…_are_ a football player after all, and I was already pissed at too many other things to be pissed at myself for ogling over one of the prep crowd."

Dash snorted. "And the fifty bucks?"

Tucker blushed then, glancing away shamefacedly. "It wasn't an entirely insignificant sum," he admitted quietly. His face was close enough Dash could _feel_ the heat radiating from him—from his cheeks and neck—and Dash's smile was feral.

"So," he said, "would you do it again?"

Again, Tucker's pulse stuttered in his grasp. "If you're asking if I would make the same decision again, if given the choice to do it over, then yes," said Tucker, "I would. If you're asking if I'd consider bringing you off again in the here and now, then I'd have to say that depends more on you."

Dash's, "Hnph," was something of a mixture between a grunt and growl. "So, in other words," he said, "if I promise to be real quiet…" His spare hand teetered, indecisively, just above the waist of Tucker's pants. "We can do something other than pretend to watch this sorry excuse for an action-suspense-thriller and actually make use of the poor lighting?"

"This 'other something' could get us kicked out of the theatre?" asked Tucker, making it almost more a statement than a question.

"In a heartbeat," Dash agreed. "Interested?"

"Nngh," Tucker shivered in the most delightful way when Dash let his fingers trace, curiously, over the semi-hard outline already present in the front of his jeans, and his distracted nod was more than enough to get the point across. "Fuck yes," he whispered, and without a moment's hesitation, Dash's hand slipped beneath jacket and shirt alike, catching Tucker's pants at the waist and giving a meaningful tug forward.

"Up," he ordered. Tucker needn't be told twice.

Dash decided he liked Tucker in his lap—one leg splayed to either side of him and full, parted lips easily within reach of his teeth. He liked the way Tucker ground against him—shameless now that they were past pretenses—and couldn't help but contrast it to all the awkward hesitance and fidgeting of past encounters with the opposite gender. By the time Tucker's trapped hand wriggled free of his grasp, moving down to catch his own and guide it impatiently to the straining bulge in his pants, Dash began to seriously doubt his sexuality.

Letting another guy touch you was one thing, he reasoned, because hormones were hormones, regardless of whose hand was down your pants, but touching another guy and _liking_ it? That was another story altogether.

After half a second's debate, Dash swallowed thickly and shut his eyes, letting his fingers curl, almost tentatively, around the denim-encased hardness beneath his palm. When Tucker hissed in appreciation, jerking into the touch, Dash relaxed slightly, reassured. It was strange, really, inducing such reactions in another male, but not altogether unpleasant, and it lent an almost heady sense of power, knowing that he had control like this, that he made the rules.

"So tell me, Foley," he asked, emboldened by Tucker's reaction and adding pressure of his own accord this time, "when _was_ the last time you got off? You seem a bit…high-strung."

The "Hngph," that followed was a sort of choked snort.

"To h-hell with that," Tucker snapped breathlessly. "If I'm high-strung, then you have the sexual restraint of a bucking bronco in mating season, and, as I've said, it's really-" A sharp inhale ended the sentence there as Dash ran his thumb along the stiff ridge in his pants, and moments later, Tucker arched his hips, hissing something vaguely akin to, "_Ahfuckyesthere_…" when the touch dipped a fraction lower. Dash observed the effects with rapt fascination.

"A bucking bronco?" he said, more to distract himself than anything else. Tucker looked—amazing, really—with his head tilted back, ever so slightly, and his lean, wiry body practically shaking with tension. His throat all but screamed "bite me" and his lips—Dash tried not to think too hard about those. "Are you implying that you _have_ sexual restraint?"

"Well more than you, certainly," Tucker replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "but…oh, hell…" His lashes fluttered, and Dash hadn't ever thought that could look so hot—_especially_ not on a guy. "It…doesn't take much to have more restraint than you," he managed finally.

"Oh, yeah?" Dash growled, and Tucker swallowed.

Lip between his teeth, eyes screwed shut, and brow furrowed in concentration, Tucker was like, the textbook example of what porn videos would look like if they featured chess club members instead of playboy bimbos: sex on legs—with glasses. And honestly, Dash thought that was a pretty accurate description of aforementioned tech geek at that moment.

"Y-yeah," came the reply, probably not as steadfast as intended.

Dash smirked. "Alright," he said, "let's see some of this famed 'sexual restraint'." And with that, he removed his hand. Tucker nearly fell forward on top of him.

"Fuck!" was the immediate response, followed rapidly by several loud 'shh!'s from the audience, and then a long string of more subdued, prolific curses from Tucker. "Dash," he hissed, "you can't just…you…" He grit his teeth and swallowed; Dash raised an eyebrow.

"Restraint?" he offered unhelpfully. If looks could kill, Dash would have burned to cinders.

"Dash, you fucking _asshole_, if you don't finish what you started, I swear-"

"You swear what, Foley?" he asked, smug as he leaned back in his chair. "You'll…tell the authorities on me? Because I sexually assaulted you—after you crawled onto my lap and shoved my hand into your crotch—and now I won't finish the job?" He folded his hands behind his head, surveying his handiwork with pride. "No," he said. "I think I like things just the way they are."

"_Dash_…"

"Aye?"

"Dash _please_…"

"If you want a job done right…"

"Oh, god…"

"Touch yourself, Foley."

Tucker whimpered beautifully. A soft, "I hate you," was followed almost immediately by a hasty snap and zip, and Dash wet his lips as Tucker's long fingers disappeared inside his pants. "Ah, _f-fuck_…"

Watching him, Dash came to a strange conclusion: Tucker was quiet during sex. Soft gasps and pants, sharp hisses and the occasional indistinct muttering, yes—but _nothing_ in comparison to the throaty moans and groans he'd grown accustomed to with his ex's. It might have been because of the theatre setting—that he was _trying_ to be quiet—but somehow, Dash didn't think so. It looked too natural.

Dash wasn't exactly sure when his hand had dropped from behind his head to the front of his own pants, but it sure beat no contact, so he let it stay, rubbing small circles as he watched the show.

Tucker wasn't 'beautiful' by any conventional standard—thin and wiry with too many sharp angles—but he _moved_ spectacularly, and his face read like a book. His back arched like a dancer with every downstroke and his throat convulsed repeatedly, lips parted and struggling for breath with the air of a man drowning. It was like watching a mime, sandwiched between agony and oblivion, and fuck if it wasn't a turn-on.

Dash's hand sped up. "You know," he observed breathlessly, "you don't actually look half bad like this, Foley."

Tucker's rhythm stuttered and he swore. "F-fuck off…"

"Do you get a lot of practice?" Dash asked, ignoring the rebuttal. "Lock yourself in your room…what do you think about?"

"Shut…_up_…" Tucker hissed, but his breath was coming in short, strangled gasps now, and the hand not on his cock was white-knuckled on the armrest beside him.

"I bet you don't do it very often," Dash mused, "and short, sloppy sessions when you do, because what you really want it a whole fuck lot more than your hand." He fumbled with the fastenings of his pants, struggling to simultaneously open them without maiming himself and keep his eyes glued to Tucker. "Do you imagine yourself fucking…or being fucked?"

Something about the way Tucker's wrist twitched erratically at the mention of being fucked made Dash strongly suspect the latter, and he nearly groaned aloud, hazily wondering how long it would take the theatre authorities to take action if he rolled Tucker into the aisle right then and started ramming him into the carpet. Probably not long, he guessed. Then again, at this rate, it probably wouldn't _take_ long—two or three quick strokes into that pert brown ass and—

Tucker came with the most exquisite whimper, and Dash did groan, eyes rolling back as his fingers finally made it past his pants to his straining erection and _oh fuck_ that felt good. Just a little tighter and faster and hell if Tucker didn't look magnificent right then—head back and chest heaving, body still trembling from the aftershocks—and again, Dash vaguely considered rolling him out into the aisle, wondered how much trouble he'd get into and then almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But he was just so _close_, and if he could just…get…

"_Ohfuckinghell_-" Dash arched into an unexpected touch and instantly felt a hand on his mouth, muffling the moan that followed and temporarily sufficing to keep from blowing whatever cover they had left.

A moment later, "Public theatre," was hissed in his ear, and Dash blinked dizzily before eventually managing to nod.

"Right," he mumbled into Tucker's palm, though it came out more like, "Rmhgt."

Apparently, that was satisfactory enough because Tucker just "hmphed" nondescriptly and went back to what he was doing. Less than thirty seconds later, Dash was rutting deliriously into Tucker's fist as he came, one hand on his cock and the other clasped firmly to Tucker's aforementioned, perfectly-rounded ass. The whole experience was a serious competitor for the official title of "Best Orgasm of Dash's Life." He tried not to remind himself that its only competition also happened to involve Tucker and—coincidentally—Tucker's amazingly talented hands.

To avoid that, he buried his nose in Tucker's neck, pulling him closer and drawing in the not-unpleasant combination of laundry detergent, cologne, popcorn, and—under it all, the faint, musky hint of fresh perspiration. He shut his eyes and was just beginning to wonder if he could get away with sleeping the rest of the movie this way when his wandering hands stumbled on something in Tucker's back pocket. Brow furrowing, he tucked his fingers down to retrieve the mysterious merchandise. Almost immediately, he began snickering. Tucker stirred between his legs.

"Wa's'funny?" came his muffled mumble of concern, soft and drowsy and not the least bit cute—at all.

"Worried you were going to get pregnant, Tucker?" Dash asked, still barely containing his laughter, and Tucker groaned into his shoulder.

Several indistinct curses later, Dash made out the words, "You found them," followed shortly after by, "…all mom's fault…" Then, Tucker made an effort to sit upright, yawning as he did so and looking much like he'd have been very willing to consent to sleeping out the rest of the movie about thirty seconds prior. "Actually," he clarified once he'd situated himself, "I'm pretty sure it was more my mom worried that _you'd_ get pregnant."

"Oh? And she thought you were," Dash counted the wrappers, "an octopus?" he concluded.

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Octopi have eight legs, Dash," he pointed out patiently in a tone eerily similar to the one he used during physics tutoring, "and _none_ of them are used in reproduction. Or…I don't think so," he added as an afterthought. "Perhaps if the octopi got really kinky and-"

"Okay, okay! Whatever," said Dash, simultaneously curious and mildly disturbed as he eyed the boy across from him. "You're really perverted, you know that?" Tucker practically beamed under the praise. It was Dash's turn to roll his eyes, but he was smiling as he went back to studying the condoms. "Why'd she give you four?" he asked eventually.

At that, Tucker frowned slightly. "Honestly," he said, "I'm not exactly sure. Something to do with my genetics?" Dash raised an eyebrow; Tucker shrugged it off. "I was kind of busy trying to avoid the sex talk and get out the door as fast as possible. I never got the details."

"Hmm…" Dash twirled one between his fingers thoughtfully—over and under, like one might a pencil. Finally, he stopped and held it up between them. "We should use these," he said, and for a moment, Tucker just stared.

After a long pause he opened his mouth, shut it, then opened again. At length he replied warily, "Alright. But not," He plucked the package from Dash's fingertips, cocking an eyebrow that dared him to object, "tonight. Agreed?"

Not tonight. But some other night, Dash thought. And that meant that this, whatever 'this' was, would continue. It meant that whatever they had—if they were even a 'they' and 'they' had anything at all—would continue. Also, arguably most importantly, it meant that Tucker _wanted_ it to continue. All of that, to Dash, was good news. He grinned.

"Alright," he agreed. "Not tonight." But some other night, he promised himself again. Some other night, they would put Tucker's mother's unbeknownst blessing to use.

A half hour or so later, the movie ended, and Dash, after a quick internal debate, walked Tucker to his car. The wind had picked up outside, carrying with it a definite chill, and Tucker was shivering by the time they reached his vehicle. Watching him, Dash thought of the old, corny black and white movies that came on late at night on the channels that no one watched. It was at this point, he thought, that if Tucker were a girl, he could have shrugged off his jersey and slung it over his shoulders—smooth and chivalrous, like the football players always did for their dates in those movies. Then, he frowned, because Tucker wasn't a girl—or his date, technically—so he shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot instead, eying the pavement and trying to think of something cool to say. Anything to say, for that matter.

"Well," said Tucker, beating him to it, "I guess I'll…see you on Monday?"

Dash looked up, watched him pull his jacket tighter about his shoulders, and then made the mistake of glancing at his mouth. Faint, wispy puffs of steam escaped his lips with every exhale, and for a fleeting second, the temptation to take just one bold step forward and snuff out that steam, taste those trembling lips on his own, was dizzying. Inhaling sharply, he looked away.

"Yeah," he said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt. "Right…Monday."

Tucker was standing there, watching him, waiting, and Dash knew he still had time. He could still kiss him. One little step was all it would take, and oh, God, did he want to. Even just a brush would suffice; just one kiss goodnight. Then, a fraction of a second too soon, Tucker dipped his head.

"Alright, then," he said. "Bye, I guess." And he opened his car door, and Dash watched, silently, as he slid in and pulled away into the night.

Alone, Dash shut his eyes and groaned, tilting his head back to the stars. "Fuck," he muttered, and as he trudged back to his car, kicking pebbles along the pavement as he went, he was pretty positive he'd never more regretted _not_ kissing someone in his life.

* * *

**A/N: **Whoo! More people reviewed this time, thanks so much, and, of course, everyone a very merry Christmas!


	6. Temperature

**Chapter Six:**

Temperature

Monday. Tucker scowled. His head hurt, his back hurt, his left toe still throbbed from where he stubbed it earlier that morning, he was cold, hungry, sopping wet, and if that weren't enough, he was also already at least thirty minutes late for school, if not more. Sighing, he shifted his backpack to the opposite shoulder and began trudging up the front steps to Casper High, soaked sneakers squelching sloppily with every step. He hated Mondays.

If he were completely honest with himself, Tucker would have to admit that his foul mood actually began about ten seconds before he climbed into his car Friday night. That, though, would mean admitting that he had really _wanted_ Dash to kiss him, and even considering that possibility tended to put him in an even worse mood. So, instead, he blamed his mood on a variety of other things including, but not limited to: his faulty alarm clock—which had failed to wake him up on time—his mother—who had failed to inform him that the car had broken down—his car—which had broken down—his poor eyesight—which had lead him to stub his toe searching for his glasses—his lousy mood swings—which had caused him to swing wildly at the alarm clock when it finally had gone off and knock his glasses of his nightstand in the first place—and just about everything else which had ultimately lead to him walking to school, alone, in the rain, and arriving late, wet, freezing and starved.

When he first stepped inside, the air-conditioned air hit him hard, like a very unwelcome first taste of winter, and Tucker swore, crossing his arms uselessly against the chill as it swept him tip to toe. By the time he made it to his locker, he couldn't feel his feet. Teeth chattering, he struggled over his locker combo with numb fingers and wondered if the office kept towels handy. Surely they wouldn't allow a student into class soaking wet? Then again, Tucker thought as he finally managed to work his lock open, any sane student probably would have stayed home long before they worked themselves into the mess he had.

Footsteps down the hall drew his attention upward, and he almost groaned aloud, sagging against his locker as Mr. Lancer approached. "Mr. Foley, is that you?" the teacher inquired. "What are you doing out of class? Shouldn't you be…" The sentence trailed off as he came close enough to pick up on all the details, and he frowned sordidly. "Mr. Foley, are you trying to break the necks of every member of the student body and faculty combined?"

"Er…what?" Tucker asked blearily.

"The floor, Mr. Foley. You're sopping wet. Not to mention-"

"Mr. Lancer!" an all-too-familiar voice called out from down the hall, accompanied by running footsteps, and Tucker shut his eyes miserably, desperately wondering if life could get worse. "Mr. Lancer," Dash said again, arriving at a half jog and looking surprisingly out of breath, "I was supposed to…give this to you." He held out a slip of paper Tucker didn't recognize, and Lancer took it. "I couldn't find you in the office, so—Tucker?" Dash stopped talking abruptly, apparently noticing Tucker for the first time. Tucker shifted awkwardly as Dash's gaze started at his feet and rose, none too quickly, lingering far too long to be entirely casual. When blue eyes met green, Dash frowned. "What the h-…err…what happened to you?" he asked, and Lancer raised an eyebrow.

"I was just trying to determine that myself," the teacher commented dryly, turning his eyes on Tucker with a look that in no way resembled the one Dash gave him a moment before. Tucker swallowed, vaguely aware of Dash's eyes roaming free now over his sopped body as he struggled in vain to concentrate on Lancer.

"I…was…well, you see," he fumbled, cheeks flushing embarrassingly. "My alarm…it…err…" Well, fuck. Tucker shut his eyes and took a breath, wondering what he wouldn't give for Danny's powers right then—invisibility, most specifically.

"Mr. Foley, you have some serious explaining to do," Lancer said, stern and disapproving. "Perhaps you should meet me in my office and we can have a nice long talk about the proper manner in which to-"

"Sir?" Dash interrupted, then blushed when Lancer turned to him. "Err, sorry, sir."

"Yes, Mr. Baxter?"

"Well, I was just thinking…umm…I mean he is…sort of wet…"

Tucker almost choked in a barely-successful attempt to stifle his laughter, and Lancer gave him a sharp look before returning his attention to Dash.

"Yes, Mr. Baxter," Lancer acknowledged. "Do you have a better suggestion for how I should handle Mr. Foley's tardy and poor conduct?"

Poor conduct? Tucker glared venomously at the injustice, but managed to keep his mouth shut.

"It's just that, well, I'm in weight-lifting right now," Dash explained. "That's where I'd be headed back to, and…I could show him to the locker room, since it's right on the way, you know…get him some towels and a change of clothes. I mean, only if you thought that would be okay, I guess. It's just…he can't really…go to class like that…right?"

If anything, Lancer looked impressed. Surprised, but impressed. "Alright, Mr. Baxter," he said at length, "you've got yourself a deal. Mr. Foley," He turned to Tucker, "you're temporarily off the hook. But I want to see you immediately after you've made yourself suitable, do you understand?"

Tucker nodded.

"And I believe you owe Mr. Baxter a hearty thank you, as well."

"Erm…right," said Tucker, and then Lancer left, and Tucker was on his own, alone in the hallway with Dash Baxter, about to be lead down to the locker room where he would be alone, again, with Dash Baxter, and he wondered what strange fates guided his miserable mortal life—something with a twisted sense of humor, in any case. "So," he muttered, turning to eye Dash, whose gaze seemed to have meandered down to somewhere in the vicinity of his rain soaked posterior, "Since when have you taken to sticking up for my sorry wet ass, huh?"

Dash temporarily postponed his examination of said body part in favor of looking up, a slight frown marring his features. Eventually, he shrugged. "Since I started taking to grabbing it, I guess," he answered, shoving his hands in his pockets and nodding his head off down the hall, apparently unconcerned with the matter. "Come on. Let's get you out of those clothes."

Suddenly, Tucker wasn't quite so cold anymore. He swallowed. "Right. I'll umm…okay." He bent to scoop up his waterlogged backpack, then proceeded to follow Dash down the hall. Something told him Lancer might have a while to wait.

"So," Dash began about thirty seconds into their trek, "you look like you just climbed out of the ocean, Foley. Did you _walk_ to school?"

Thunder clapped overhead, shaking the cheap ceiling panels, and the lights flickered all down the hall, creating an eerie, horror-movie effect that made Tucker frown. "Actually," he replied, "yeah. I did."

Dash eyed him critically, looking skeptical, disapproving, and—concerned? He turned his head before Tucker could analyze the look further. "Isn't that…dangerous? Or something?"

More thunder—a deep, slow roll that sounded like an approaching train, except several octaves lower—and Tucker shuffled his backpack uneasily, unsettled by the obvious ferocity of the storm. "It…wasn't that bad when I left."

"Hnph." Dash's grunt was curt and unsatisfied, but he let the subject drop. "Here we are," he said a moment later, stopping outside a closed metal door and dragging a jumbled ring of keys from his pocket. Tucker watched as he selected a small copper one and frowned.

"Is it always locked?" he asked.

Dash shrugged, twisting the key and giving the door a short shove. It came open without much trouble. "The football team uses it for changing and storage when in season. Same for basketball in the spring…I guess they just don't want people coming in and messing around without permission."

"Hm…I guess that makes sense," Tucker said, following after Dash and taking in his surroundings with peaked curiosity.

It was a large room, well furnished, and newer looking than the rest of the school. The walls proudly sported the school colors and mascot in fresh paint, long benches lined the each one, several littered with scattered sports equipment, and the lockers looked to be in better condition than any Tucker had seen in the halls. Around the corner, he saw signs of bathrooms and showers, and, once through with his optical circumnavigation of the room, he raised his eyebrows.

"Nice place," he commented. "I've never seen it before."

"You wouldn't," Dash said. "They reserve it for the sports teams only. No one else ever really comes in."

Tucker nodded, but said nothing. Behind him, Dash pulled the door shut with a click, and Tucker drew a slow breath. "So," he prompted, toeing off his shoes and curling his numb feet against the cool cement flooring, "I was promised towels?"

"Yeah. You should change first, though."

"What exactly-"

"Guys from the team leave their junk in here all the time," Dash explained. "Some of them never reclaim it, so we always have this huge pile of lost and found that no one ever looks at." He had crossed to the center of the room, but turned around then, surveying Tucker's figure once more before frowning slightly. "I don't think anyone's as small as you," he concluded, "but I'm pretty sure you could find something that wouldn't fall off. No one would care, in any case, and at least it'll be dry."

"Ah," was Tucker's brilliant reply. "Okay…um," He took another glance around the room, "Where's that, then?"

Dash pointed, and Tucker followed his indication to a rather large box in the far corner of the room, tucked back at the end of the row of lockers. Great heaps of god-knows-what spilled from the edges, some of it littering the surrounding floor, and Tucker almost winced at the daunting arrangement. Better than nothing, though, he conceded, and approached it warily.

After a prolonged period of sifting and winnowing, Tucker ultimately settled on a loose white tee and a pair of faded black jeans at least three sizes too large—the smallest of the batch. Thunder drum rolled overhead as he stood, and he set his selections aside on the nearest bench.

"So," he said, suddenly anxious for conversation as he faced the fact that sooner or later, he was going to have to start taking clothes off, and Dash wasn't likely to leave anytime soon. "How was your weekend?"

Dash snorted. "Fine, I guess," he answered without enthusiasm. "You?"

Tucker thumbed the hem of his shirt. "Lackluster," he replied.

That earned him a very puzzled look. "Lake-what?"

"Err…it could have been better," Tucker clarified. He twisted his finger into the wet cloth, watching a small stream of water trickle to the floor as he did so, and frowned. It wasn't that he was shy or ashamed of his body, but the idea of stripping here, in front of Dash—

"Do you want me to turn around?" the quarterback asked impatiently. Seconds later, he caught Tucker's soaking shirt just in time to avoid being hit in the face. "Hey!" he retorted, "I was just-"

"Dick," Tucker sniped. "Where's my towel?"

Dash rolled his eyes, tossing the wet shirt to the side and taking his fill of Tucker's new shirtless state. "Demanding, aren't you?" he said, gaze lingering long enough to make Tucker shuffle under the observation. "And temperamental to boot…" Dash strode across the room, opening a closet down near the showers and dragging forth the requested towel. "Do you want white, tan, beige, or-"

"Just get me a damn-" Tucker grunted as something warm and fluffy hit his chest, and suddenly Dash was right _there_, all blue eyes and hot breath and soft lips three inches from his face and—Tucker swallowed. "Dash-"

"You'll need to lose those pants too."

Tucker opened his mouth, shut it, and curled his fingers in the towel, holding it subconsciously closer. "Right…"

"You can use one of those shower stalls, if you want," Dash said. Then, after a pause he added, "Unless you think you might need some help?" and Tucker's neck burned.

"Um, no, that's…" He cleared his throat. "That's quite alright. I think…I can…ah…handle it. By myself, that is, yeah…" He tried to back up, almost tripped on his pants, and swore. After catching his balance, he hastily disappeared into one of the aforementioned stalls.

Outside, he heard Dash snickering and glowered at the white tiles that made up the shower wall, silently swearing revenge as he wrestled with his wet jeans. The soaked material clung to his skin like glue, sticking and catching, but the showers were spacious, so he eventually managed to get them off and, after a moment's debate, removed his boxers as well. No point in changing into dry pants if he had on wet underwear underneath.

The chosen black jeans practically fell off his hips, bunched hopelessly around his ankles and grated on certain sensitive parts of his anatomy, but at least they stayed up. The white tee looked more like a sheet than a shirt, but it masked how low slung the jeans were, so he decided not to worry about it. He emerged from the stall with the towel draped over his head, wringing out his old clothes as thoroughly as possible and stepping widely to avoid another embarrassing trip up on the bottoms of his pants.

"Where do you get your exercise?" was Dash's first question upon his exit.

Tucker looked up mid-wring, boxers in hand and extended as he tried to extract as much water as possible from the drenched apparel. "Excuse me?"

"Your exercise," Dash repeated. He was leaning against one of the lockers, arms folded across his chest, key ring dangling from one finger and clinking as he swung it back and forth. "You must get it somewhere."

"Uh…" Tucker slung all his old clothes over one of the benches, then sat down, turning to the process of tugging off his wet socks. "I don't know…why?"

Dash snorted, as if it were obvious. "'Cause you're fit, Foley, why the hell else? I always thought you were just skinny…didn't eat much or something. Under all the bags you wear all the time, you can't really tell."

Tucker didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted or both. He decided to withhold judgment.

"But you're not just skinny," Dash continued. "You've got muscle too, and a fair amount of it." He pushed up off the lockers. "You don't get that from hacking computer programs, Foley. What do you do?"

"I, umm…" Tucker hung his socks over the bench beside his pants. "I run," he answered. And it was true. So he ran for his life as opposed to exercise, so what? If he was fit because ghosts and plasmas-shooting specters seemed frequently bent on destroying him and his friends, so be it. Dash didn't need to know the details. He spent a lot of time running.

"Every day?" Dash asked.

Tucker thought of Skulker and Technus, Desiree, Walker, and Spectra with Bertrand. He thought of running to and from vehicles, plans gone wrong, last minute escapes. He thought of Danny and Sam and way, way too many close calls. "Yeah," he said, trying to remember the name of the last spooky thing to invade Amity Park with aspirations of world domination. It had become such a habit now, they all sort of blended together. "Pretty much."

"Fast?"

Tucker looked up, surprised to find Dash's eyes on his face for once, as opposed to everywhere else. "Fast as I can," he answered.

A long pause ensued, and he knew he should get up and gather his stuff, wring his socks out one last time and put his shoes back on, go see Lancer and get on to class. For some reason, though, he never got around to the actual getting up part, and so he sat there, watching Dash watch him and contemplating the meaning of life—his own, in particular.

Finally, he sighed. "Dash-"

"You didn't have to put your shirt back on."

"I-" Tucker frowned as the statement sunk in. "Wait…what?"

"Your shirt," Dash said again. "You look better without it."

Tucker tilted his head speculatively. "Oh?" he said, almost amused. "And the rest of the school will just…accept my going around topless without comment?"

"Who said anything about the rest of the school?"

Tucker smiled but shook his head. "I did," he said, grabbing his damp socks and standing with every intention of going over to get his shoes and preparing to leave for Lancer's office. He didn't make it two steps before Dash's hand shackled his wrist.

"Wait."

"Dash-"

"I…" Dash faltered there, choosing his words carefully. "I had fun Friday," he said at last.

Tucker's mouth opened, but instead of, "I have to go," he said, "I did too," and the next thing he knew Dash was stepping forward and he was stepping back, and somewhere along the line his back hit a wall. Then Dash had one hand to the side of his face, caging him in, and the other on his forearm, tugging him forward, and when he opened his mouth, "Wait, Dash, we shouldn't," mutated halfway through into something closer to, "Whmm, Dash…" as Dash's lips descended on his own and then—then it didn't matter anymore.

Soft and smooth and salty: Tucker's lashes drooped as Dash's mouth slid across his, swallowing his whisper of, "Fuck, you're warm," and effectively driving any notions of Lancer and tardy slips to the farthest reaches of his conscious. Right then, Dash tasted of sweat and peppermint, the lingering remains of weight-lifting mixed with—chewing gum, perhaps?—sweet and saline and fresh and breathtaking all at once. Everything else could wait.

Dash's kiss devoured him—hot and hungry—a weekend's worth of pent up sexual energy put to the sole task of driving Tucker Foley insane. Before long, his grip on Tucker's forearm slid up, ultimately finding purchase at the back of his neck and immediately weaving tightly into the dark, damp braids, guiding him purposefully from one motion to the next. Tucker's hands on Dash's chest, originally a barricade, curled into the fabric of his jersey, urging him forward in a brazen demand for more contact, more heat, more _everything_. Then, teeth caught his lower lip, tugging and licking and sucking and before he knew it, Tucker was on his toes, arching into Dash's pin and panting into his mouth and wondering why the hell he'd never been kissed like _this_ before.

A hand skimmed his stomach, but Tucker barely noticed: Dash's tongue was venturing past his teeth now, spreading his lips wide and sliding across his own and dipping and curling and _fucking_ his mouth, and Tucker shuddered, throwing pride to the wind as his hips arched of their own accord and his knees quivered dangerously. Surely this kind of thing was illegal somewhere…

Then, very abruptly, he became aware that at some point, kissing and touching had elevated to grinding and groping, and Dash's thumb was skirting under the hem of his pants, and as fucking _wonderful_ as that felt—

"Shit," Tucker cursed, stilling Dash's hand in bold defiance of every hormone in his body currently screaming something along the lines of: Dash, Tucker, sweat, sex, floor, now. "Wait, Dash…this isn't…oh, damn." Tucker shut his eyes, visibly shaking as he made a very conscious effort to regain some semblance of control over his heart and lungs. Dash's treacherously close proximity wasn't helping things. "First," he panted breathlessly, "what…was _that_?"

"Hn," Dash's breath slid down his neck like a hot fog, humid and clingy, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with his early morning encounter with Mother Nature. "Something I thought about all fucking weekend," Dash answered thickly, and Tucker shivered as teeth caught his earlobe, gently nipped and tugged, and—oh _hell_. "Something I should have done Friday night."

"Damn right," Tucker snapped, though it came out less forceful than he intended, partially due to the fact that somewhere along the line, their lips had begun meeting again—short, breathy kisses stolen between words—and if nothing else, Dash knew how to _kiss_. Then, Dash's hand ventured in dangerous territory again, reminding Tucker of why he pulled back in the first place, and he swore. Stopping him the second time was immensely more difficult than the first. "Dash-"

"Why _not_?" Dash insisted, frustrated and flushed and fucking _hot_, prep crowd or no.

"Because…" Tucker swallowed, suddenly finding it very difficult to answer that question himself. "Because, I…"

"You're not wearing any _underwear_, Foley," Dash reminded him huskily, rolling his hips forward for emphasis, and Tucker made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, chopped and breathy, as his body jerked under the stimulation.

"Yes," he answered weakly, "but that's not…" He shut his eyes. "Damn it, Dash…I have a date with Lancer. We can't-"

"Fuck Lancer," Dash murmured.

"But…mm…" Well, that just worked splendidly, Tucker thought sardonically as Dash's lips closed over his again, effectively muting him. "But," he put in as soon as a spare moment arose, "I don't _want_ to fuck Lancer."

That—well—that _did_ work splendidly.

Instantly, Dash groaned, and not in the good way. When he pulled back, he gave Tucker the most desperate, partially mortified, and exceedingly put-out expression he had ever witnessed, accompanied by an, "Ew," that said millions. "_Tucker_," he whined, but Tucker was slipping out from under him, stuffing on his socks and squelching into his shoes. "Did you really, really have to-"

"Obviously," Tucker pecked his cheek, "I really, really did," he said, thoroughly bemused by the fact that football players could, in fact, pout—and rather adorably at that. "Oh, come on," he soothed a moment later, "you'll live. If it makes you feel better, I promise to skip out on the underwear some other time, alright?"

That got Dash's attention. "Really?"

Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Would I say it if I didn't mean it?"

"Maybe. I don't know you that well."

"Hm," Tucker tugged on his backpack, "We should work on that," he said. "Until then, yes, really. You leave me be to go deal with Lancer, and sometime in the future, I'll leave the boxers at home."

"Do I choose the day?"

"You…umm…" Tucker considered this. "I…guess. Yeah. Sure. If you want."

Dash held out his hand, and for a moment Tucker just stared. "Shake on it, Foley."

Tucker blushed. "Oh." But he accepted the hand, and this time, there was no startled noise when Dash tugged him forward, just a slight tumble, then a contented hum as their lips met.

Maybe Mondays weren't so bad after all.

**A/N:** Sorry it's late! Wow, I never thought I'd be late until I started running out of chapters. . My appologies. Reason for lateness: I forgot. Plain and simple; no excuses. Yesterday was a busy day; boyfriend finally started talking to me after fourty-eight hours of silence, yada, yada. Lots of fun. Anyway, point is, I forgot it was Friday. And it's this late today 'cause...I just woke up. Yeahhhh....at two in the afternoon. (Hush, all. This is break; I didn't go to bed 'til five anyway. WHATever...or something.) Hope everyone had a great New Years. :D


	7. Pressure

**Chapter Seven:****  
**Pressure

"Football?? You call that _football_?!? I've seen _road kill_ play better than that! That was pathetic! That was beyond pathetic! You're all-"

About there, Dash stopped listening. Sweat stung his eyes. His thighs burned, his shoulders ached, and his whole body felt like it had been run over by a herd of stampeding rhinos, or, in this case, the East Bay High yellow-jacket linebackers. Carlos, his best running back, had twisted his ankle on their last pass, and they were back on offense, Casper High Ghosts down, twenty to nothing. It was only the first quarter.

"Dash! Are you even _listening_ to me?"

Lifting his head blearily, Dash tried to focus on his coach, squinting through the sweat and stadium lights and coming up with little more than a foggy blur. Just as well. He'd seen all too many puffy-faced men, red with fury, exploding behind their beards as they tried, in vain, to scream their teams to victory.

"Yeah?" he replied. Even he had to admit it didn't sound very convincing.

"I've heard more convincing retorts from dishtowels, Baxter. You're the quarterback, for God's sake! At least pretend to be paying attention! You think you can manage that for me?"

"Sure." Whatever. Dash loved this game. He fucking _loved_ it. But he hated to lose. And all his team _did_ was lose. He grimaced, trying to will down his headache and wondering why he bothered, why it mattered so much.

"You look like mud on that field, Baxter. Quit running the damn ball and take a hit every once in a while, alright? Your legs are mush and the team can't take any more flack." Dully, Dash nodded, only half listening, and the coach gave up on him, turning back to the team. More shouting ensued, and then they were up.

"Just remember," came the final shout as players were issued out onto the field, "if we want to have any chance against these guys we have to run them into the ground! _Now_!" And so went the final call to get the team screaming, but the answering war cry was half-hearted, and as Dash stepped out onto the field, he felt the first drops of rain.

They faired better the second quarter, but not by much. Enrique "Richie" Pamelo, the only other Hispanic on their team aside from Carlos, filled in as a runner, and played better than he ever had. They took fifty yards within the first few minutes back in before the yellow-jacket defense finally brought them down. After that, the line teeter-tottered, ending with the yellow-jackets holding still at twenty, and the ghosts up seven, for a final score of twenty to seven at halftime.

As he sauntered back, exhausted, to the sidelines after the final horn blow, Kwan met him with a look that meant _something_ was up, and he was about to hear about it. Dash sighed, snatching a towel from the nearest bench and promptly collapsing.

"Do I really have to hear this now?" he asked, draping the blessedly damp cloth over his neck and palming his throbbing left shoulder with a wince. Kwan frowned.

"You look awful," he said.

"Thanks," Dash muttered, but he accepted the offered bottle of water. After popping the cap and downing half in one go, he wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, then eyed Kwan more speculatively. "So," he began at length, "what's up?"

"You look awful," he repeated, and Dash rolled his eyes.

"So you've said," he grumbled. "Got something new?"

Kwan shook his head. "No, man, that's not it. I mean…you look like…" He rubbed the back of his head, then scowled, dropping down to the bench beside Dash. "You like you don't give a shit anymore. You look like you don't care about this team, like this doesn't _matter_ to you."

Dash tugged the damp towel off the back of his neck, letting it flop lifelessly to the seat beside him. "You coach now?" he muttered glumly.

"Dash-"

"Of course it fucking matters!" Dash snapped, standing and scowling at the world in general. Maybe he'd feel better if he had something to pound on. "It's just…what's the point, huh? Can you tell me that? This is me. This," He threw his hands out to indicate the field, now receiving it's fair share of rain, "is me. It's what I do. It's what I can do…maybe _all_ I can do. And even then, it's…" He sighed, losing drive again and shaking his head. "It's the only thing that could ever get me anywhere, and I'm not good enough for it to make any difference."

Kwan eyed him. "And you just now decided to get all philosophical on us?"

Dash frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it again.

His best friend sighed. "You need to beat something up, man…or get laid." Dash gave him a sharp look and Kwan threw his hands up in surrender. "Hey, look, all I know, is you seem a bit out of it, okay? When was the last time you relaxed and hung out with the crowd, huh?"

Dash contemplated this.

"You've been working too hard, man. People are starting to wonder."

"Wonder?" Dash looked almost threatening. "Wonder about what?"

"Well, ever since you started that tutoring thing with the geek kid-"

"Tucker."

"Foley, right. You just haven't been the same. I haven't seen you around. You've been missing practices-"

"I have tutoring."

"Every _day_?"

"Yeah, Kwan, every day," Dash repeated, suddenly a good deal more pissed than he had a right to be. "Look, if I don't keep my grades up, I can't be here at all, alright? From what I can see, the team hasn't leapt ahead of me in skill after all those practices, so I really don't see what the big deal is."

Kwan waited a moment, then finally said, "It's just your reputation I'm worried about, man, alright? You've never been this dedicated to school. Since when does Dash Baxter spend an hour and half, five days a week, after school locked in a physics lab studying, huh? People'll think something's up."

"So I care about football."

"Not the way you're playing tonight, you don't."

Dash grit his teeth, willing himself calm. "Nothing…is up, Kwan. Okay?"

Kwan eyed him dubiously. "Come to the beach tomorrow," he said finally, making it a statement as opposed to an offer. "Six o'clock."

Dash scowled, dropping his head and palming his temples. "Isn't it cold for swimming?" he asked.

"Bonfire, Dash," Kwan corrected. "Bonfire, food, chicks, and the oldest chaperone is twenty-six. Talk to your teammates, loosen up a bit…and forget that tutoring for once. It'll be good for you."

"Hn."

"You'll thank me later for this."

"Right," Dash muttered, and he watched Kwan push up off the wall, eyes on the half-time pizza, courtesy of the PTA.

"Just say you'll go alright? And talk to that tutor of yours…"

"Tucker?"

"Foley, yeah," Kwan reiterated. "See if you can't arrange to have sessions like, only every other day or something, so you can make at least some of the practices. It feels like you're driftin', Dash, and I don't wanna lose you, you got it? Six."

"Six," Dash repeated. "Right. I'll see what I can do…"

Twenty four hours later, he was standing alone on the shore, moonlight glistening over a glassy ocean, highlighting every ripple and dip in a shimmering display fit for the cover of some cheesy romance novel. He glowered at it. Why had he come again? Stooping down, he gathered a small stone from the sand, palming it several times over before finally tossing it out and watching it plunk without a single skip into the murky depths, momentarily marring the picturesque perfection. This wasn't how he wanted to spend his weekend.

"Here you are," said a feminine voice, drawing him from his thoughts, and he glanced back. "I wondered where you'd run off to." Paulina's figure was a shadowy silhouette against the crimson glow of the bonfire behind her. "Care for some company?" she asked.

Dash watched her approach, dark hair billowing like a heavy cape as it caught the wind, slender arms folded across her chest for warmth, and he frowned. Company was the last thing he wanted. Instead of voicing that, however, he just shrugged, keeping his mouth shut and turning back to the ocean.

"It is beautiful, no?" she murmured, and he looked down to find her beside him. When he said nothing, she glanced up, eyes a soft aqua-blue that caught the moonlight. He wondered what Tucker's eyes would look like in the moonlight. Then, frowning, he pushed the notion away—not a safe train of thought. "The ocean," she clarified, and Dash mentally shook himself back into reality.

"Yeah," he agreed. "It's…nice."

She sighed, a soft sound that caught the breeze, and he watched her shiver. Paulina was a girl, he reminded himself. If he threw his coat over _her_ shoulders, it would be just as smooth and chivalrous as it was in all those corny black and white movies. It was odd, he thought, realizing that he didn't want to.

"I've missed you, you know," she said quietly after a time, and he figured it was pointless to point out that he hadn't gone anywhere. "I barely see you anymore, and you seem so…distant."

But I'm right here, Dash thought. Right here.

"I…" Her voice wavered, eyes glistening, and Dash's gut clenched.

Don't cry, he prayed silently. Please don't cry. He hated it when girls cried—always so wet and messy and red and puffy—and so much drama to boot. If they cried around a guy, they always seemed to feel obliged to spill their life story right then and there, all through the sniffles and tears. But she didn't cry.

"Would you kiss me?" she asked.

Dash almost wished she'd cried. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He realized then, with painful clarity that he didn't _want_ to kiss her, and it was a groundbreaking moment for him. At the same time, though, he knew he had no choice—not if he wanted to retain any semblance of his reputation, that is—and he swallowed an awkward lump in his throat. Part of being king of Casper High was tending to the wishes of the queen.

He caught her chin in his fingertips, but her skin was too pale against his—a beautiful, light bronze, but not nearly dark enough—and when he dropped his head, bringing their mouths smoothly together, her lips were warm, but too compliant, and far too thin. Even her hair—sleek and smooth as silk—felt wrong.

When they broke, he nearly groaned aloud in frustration. He had a cheerleader pressed to his chest, warm, willing, and wanting, but all he could think about was a stick skinny techy with sharp green eyes and a grin to make gods fidget.

"Paulina-"

"Dash…" His name was a moan on her lips, breathy and beckoning, but it sounded off, unsettling, and his heart stuttered with something oddly close to panic as she caught his hand, drawing it up past her waist, over her stomach, and finally to the heartbeat in her chest. "No one will notice," she murmured, "if we disappear for a little while…"

Dash glanced sharply back to the bonfire with sudden desperate longing. "But-"

"Come on, Dash," she cooed. "Relax. It'll be…fun." And her hands were small in his, leading him off down the beach, into the darkness, until the mighty bonfire was nothing but a dim red firefly in the distance.

Fun. Right. Dash shut his eyes, swallowing his pulse as they sank into the sand. He racked his brain for something useful to say, anything to defer her, but nothing came to mind that wouldn't send his reputation spiraling into murky oblivion in about two seconds flat. Sadly enough, all he could think of as she pulled his body atop hers, was how long it was going to take to get the sand out of his clothes, and that the situation might have been slightly more bearable if she wore glasses.

He sincerely hoped Tucker was having a better night than he was.

**A/N: **I remembered it was Friday, whoo! **CC**, send me a PM if/when you publish? :D


	8. Conflict

**Chapter Eight:**  
Conflict

"It's…Friday…night," Tucker panted into the mike of his three-way, cold air burning his lungs as he maneuvered the dim streets of Amity Park at a fast jog. "I should be…scarfing down pizza…slaughtering digitized monster-beasts…hacking into the White House…"

"Or watching pretty blonde quarterbacks drag the Casper High ghosts into yet another demoralizing defeat?" Danny provided cockily at the other end, and Tucker almost tripped.

"Concentrate, guys," Sam's voice interrupted, "I think I've finally got a lock on our guy…down on thirty-fifth, just south of the Nasty Burger." Her connection buzzed, then came through with, "Tucker, you're closest. Back Danny up till I get there. I think we've got something real on our hands this time…be careful." With that, she clicked out.

Tucker rounded a corner, squinting through the gloom as his feet pounded the pavement, but still no sign of their target—or Danny, for that matter. He tapped his mike. "Danny?"

"Aye?" The connection was fuzzy, and Tucker mentally noted to double-check their systems after they wrapped up this "mission" of sorts.

"I can't see a damn thing with this fog…and I think it's gonna to rain. Where are you?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth, than two shots of electric blue _something_ erupted about three feet from his left shoe, sending shattered brick and rock everywhere in a spectacular display of flying, radioactive sidewalk. Not a second too soon, the effects phased through his body, and then it was up, up, up—shutting his eyes as tightly as possible and clinging to Danny for dear life, literally, as they sailed out of the streets—and onto the rooftops.

"Danny…what…" Tucker's legs quivered as Danny set him down, and he clutched his stomach, grimacing as it churned with the same upside-down, twisted, gurgly feel he got every time Danny decided to give impromptu flying lessons. "What was," he tried again, but Danny interrupted.

"I was hoping you could tell me," he said, hovering now by the rails at the edge of the building.

"Ngh, yeah, well…" Tucker leaned against a large thermostat, wincing and willing his stomach to settle. "I didn't actually see it but," He pulled off his glasses, squinting once before rubbing the lenses, then slipping them back into place, "I'm pretty sure it wasn't the box ghost."

Danny threw his hands to the sky. "Great! I never would have guessed."

Tucker opened his mouth, but instead of words, a screeching wail filled the air, and his head snapped skyward. The last thing he saw before a biting whirl of icy wind forced him to duck his head was an eerie streak of spindly blue, snaking through the sky like limp lightning. Then, Danny was up, gone and far away, and Tucker's only thought was, "I'll kill him if he dies."

The wind must have accompanied the spirit, because it seemed almost alive—nipping and stinging; caustic and unbelievably frigid. It seeped into his flesh like a spirit in itself, and in accompaniment with the moaning above—a heart-wrenching wail pitiful enough to suck the last drop of hope from even the happiest soul—Tucker honestly wondered if they had finally met a deadly match. He hunkered down to the rooftop, shielding his eyes as he tried to make out Danny's zipping figure through the wind and mist, and tuning himself back into the three-way.

"Sam?"

"Found it yet?"

"It found us. Look, this thing is…nothing I've seen before. It must be fresh from the ghost zone but it's like…a florescent blue dementor or something…" These were the moments Tucker hated the most—hunkering in a corner, talking into a gadget and watching Danny brush death a thousand times, unable to do anything more than witness the freak show.

"A florescent _what_?"

"A…a thing that sucks happiness," he explained hastily, less concerned with describing the freakish wailing spirit overhead and more concerned with his best friend—who looked to be fighting a standoff. "It's just…get up here quick, alright? We'll need more than the Fenton thermos to—_Danny_!" And the connection died there because the standoff had just ended—in favor of the shrieking specter—and a silver-haired body was skidding, limp, across the rooftop.

A brief sprint later, Tucker was collapsing at Danny's side, to his knees, his heart a lead weight in his chest as his existence hung on the anticipation of a sign of life—any sign of life. Then, Danny's lashes fluttered, lips parting with a soft groan, and Tucker breathed again.

"Tucker?"

"Danny-"

"Shit!"

Tucker ducked as a green shield encased them, the glow extending from Danny's upraised palms into a science-fiction-worthy orb that deflected the lethal onslaught of glowing ectoplasm that followed a half-second later. As soon as the deadly shower let up, the shield flickered out of existence, and Danny struggled to his feet, staggering uncontrollably.

"Danny, you can't possibly-"

"I can't just-"

The subsequent wail swallowed both their sentences simultaneously, shaking the glass of nearby buildings and forcing them to cover their ears, doubling over as the sound drilled in like a thousand needles, piercing and stabbing, no matter how they tried to drown it out. Then, it dropped several octaves, morphing into more of a rolling roar than anything else—waves crashing, magnified a thousand times.

When Tucker finally managed to look up, it was like watching a live-action episode of Space Trek—or something of the like—one of the ones where a giant, upside down waterspout of a black-hole split open space and time, crackling blue and black and purple and devouring everything within twenty light-years. Luckily, this black-hole took nothing but the blue-lightning specter as its prisoner, swirling it up with a deranged likeness to an oversized toilet-flush, then folding back in on itself and disappearing altogether. The moment it left, it began to rain.

Only then, as cool, misty droplets of a fall shower began sprinkling down over his upturned face, did Tucker shake himself from his daze. He came-to to find Danny's weight resting heavily on his shoulder, and Sam's concerned voice speaking into the microphone.

"—was that? Did you see? Tucker? Danny? Are you there?"

Amazingly enough, the hardware had survived everything intact; maybe it wouldn't all need replacing after all. Tucker clicked in. "Yeah, Sam. We…umm…definitely saw it…and we're alive. You might want to call 911, though, Danny took a pretty good—"

"Danny's fine," Danny cut in, sounding groggy and exhausted, but very determined not to visit the hospital. Tucker aided him in wrapping an arm over his shoulder as they staggered, at Danny's silent insistence, toward the rail. "Where are you? Are you okay?"

"Not a scratch," she answered. "Sorry I missed the action, but I'm on my way now. You two just stay put. I'll be there before you know it." When she clicked off, Danny turned to Tucker.

"That was too close," he said. Silently, Tucker agreed. "I didn't even…I mean…if it hadn't of disappeared like that…I don't know if we would have made it. It's just…" He shook his head. "What about you?" he asked. "Are you-"

"I'm fine," Tucker said, unable to hide the edge in his voice.

"Tucker-"

"I thought you _died_, Danny," he cut in again before his friend could object further. "I think I have every right to be pissed, alright?"

"But-"

"And you don't even seem to care! You just go right back at it, back into the battle, the insanity, these crazy…things…always coming after us. I mean why the _hell_…" Tucker shut his eyes, forcing himself to slow down, breathe. "It's not fair."

"No. It's not," Danny admitted, "but…somebody's gotta do it."

"Somebody," Tucker agreed, eying his best friend carefully, still pale, silver-haired and green-eyed—surreal, almost, "but not _you_, Danny. It shouldn't have to always be _you_."

"Maybe not. But until someone else steps up to the plate…it will be."

Then, before Tucker could put together a suitable response, Danny reached out, catching his jacket cuff and effectively stalling his reply. Only then did Tucker notice it was singed—or, rather, looked as if something dangerously acidic had taken a large chomp out of it. His stomach gave a queasy lurch.

"How will you explain this to your mom?" Danny asked.

"I'll…" Tucker blushed, not because of the question, but because instead of letting go, Danny was holding his wrist captive, running his thumb idly over the damaged cloth like a concerned caress, as if the attack had hit Tucker, as opposed to just the jacket sleeve. "I'll…think of something," Tucker replied, withdrawing his hand and crossing his arms, suddenly self-conscious.

"Hn." Danny, too, crossed his arms, but he didn't look cold, or self-conscious, as he leaned against the rail, looking down over the town once more. "Maybe someday, you won't have to," he said quietly.

Tucker blinked, confused. "Won't have to what?"

"Think of something," Danny clarified. "Maybe someday, none of us will have to 'think of something' to say to explain the where's and why's to our parents. Maybe someday, you'll just be able to tell her…tell the truth. No more secrets and lies and…deception."

Tucker wondered if he was still talking about a burnt jacket cuff. "Yeah," he said, choosing not to voice his musings, "maybe someday."

Below, Sam pulled into a parking spot, ready to pick them up. Seeing her, Danny grinned, philosophical detest of lies and deception utterly forgotten in a moment's notice.

"So," he said, holding out a hand and grinning like a madman, "do you trust me?"

Tucker swallowed, thinking of Aladdin as he held out his hand to Jasmine before he took her on a maniacal death-leap off a rickety building in Agrabah—only to land safely on a magic carpet, of course. But, there were no magic carpets in Amity Park, or at least none that Tucker knew of, and it looked like at least twenty stories to the parking lot.

Flying lessons, he thought, feeling sick to his stomach. Great. "Sometimes," he said aloud, "I wonder if I should," but he took Danny's hand anyway, and the next moment, they were chest to chest, nose to nose, balanced precariously on the railing of a twenty-story building, and Tucker wondered if he might rather have just met a nice clean end via death-by-ectoplasmic-goo.

Danny's green eyes twinkled mischievously. "You're cute when you're terrified, you know that?"

Tucker couldn't even manage to glare, too busy screwing his eyes shut and waiting for the world to end. "You should have been born a villain," were his last words before they toppled over the edge.

Twenty-four hours later, he sat safely in his room, at his desk, happily slaying countless hordes of digitized monster-beasts, a half-eaten box of pizza not two feet from his desk and the final boss battle theme from his latest videogame playing loudly in his ears. Life was good.

Or, at least it was—until the battle theme cut off abruptly in favor a few short bleeps that announced a new message on his cell.

Sighing, Tucker slipped his headset down around his neck, momentarily relinquishing his auditory entertainment and withdrawing from wild, monster-beast slaying mode in order to devote his attention to whoever dared disturb his devout slaughtering of all things evil and benign. He flipped open his cell.

It read: "We need to talk."

He slumped in his chair. "Danny," he groaned, knowing from experience that his friend was already somewhere in the room, "I was in a really, really good mood. Do we have to do this-"

"Now?" Danny finished his sentence, and Tucker almost jumped, head snapping up to find Danny hovering, legs crossed Buddha-style, about a foot above his monitor, one eyebrow raised and chin propped on his fist. "Yes," he said. "I think we do."

Tucker sighed. "I was two tiers from the dungeon's end, Danny—two tiers. This had better be important…"

"It is."

"Hn," Tucker grunted, unconvinced, but he reached over to his mouse anyway, logging out his avatar and minimizing the player window. "Okay," he said once through, leaning back in his chair, "Tell me, what is so god awfully important that it justifies delaying the inevitable beheading of the great Troll King Zaharuth, hm?"

"I think you're making a mistake," Danny said, and Tucker raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?" he replied, crossing his arms skeptically. "On what front?"

"Dash is an ass, Tucker."

"Dash?"

"Yes, he-"

"You invaded my room, interrupted my troll-slaying, and scared me half shitless with your ghostly appear-out-of-nowhere-and-give-Tucker-a-heart-attack nonsense to talk about _Dash_?"

"Err…yes?"

"Go _away_, Danny," Tucker groaned. "You've just wasted at _least_ three minutes of my life and I'm quite ready to go back to beheading King Zahar-"

"I'm right, aren't I?" Danny persisted, ignoring Tucker's scowl of discontent when he made the keyboard intangible and, likewise, unusable. "He's the one you spent that Friday with? He's-"

"Not that it's any of your business, Danny," Tucker interrupted stiffly, "but I really don't see where this is go-"

"It's going to you being with _Dash Baxter_! Dash! Of all people, you had to pick-"

"I don't know what your impression of the situation is, Danny," Tucker said calmly—a cold contrast to Danny's outburst, "but I'd like to point out that, for one thing, I don't consider myself '_with_' anyone, Dash, or otherwise, and for another, even if I were with someone, which I'm not, I wouldn't consider it any of your concern one way or another, because-"

"Have you kissed him?"

"Danny, please-"

"Have you?"

"I think you should leave."

"I just want to kno-"

"Yes," Tucker snapped. "Are you happy?"

"…" Danny frowned. "No."

Tucker sighed. "Look, Danny-"

"Is he a better kisser than me?"

Tucker dropped his head in his hands.

"Come _on_, Tucker…please?"

"If I tell you…will you leave?"

"Yes."

"Then yes," said Tucker. "He's a better kisser than you."

Danny gaped. "But-"

"Now go."

"But-"

"The door…is that way," Tucker said, pointing. "The widow's over there," He pointed again, "and, hell, if you want to get creative, there's the ceiling, a wall, another wall, and hey! What do you know? The floor," he said, indicating each thing as he listed it. "I'll see you Monday, Danny."

"Tucker-"

"You promised. Now-"

In the blink of an eye, Danny was no longer hovering over his computer, but moving forward, pushing his shoulders, and forcing him back, down, _through_ his chair, and to the floor below. Two seconds and one amazingly painless landing later, Tucker was on his back, staring wide-eyed and bewildered into deep, midnight blue eyes—the déjà vu was overwhelming.

"That," Tucker gasped as soon as he regained cognitive functions, "was totally and completely unfair."

"Life's not fair."

"But," Something about Danny's breath on his neck was exceedingly distracting in a way that made it nearly impossible for Tucker to breathe let alone think or speak, and he swallowed a dry lump in his throat, "You…said…"

"I said I wanted to talk to you, Tucker, and you never let me…"

"You said you'd leave, and you're not," Tucker pointed out meekly, but his tone lacked its former resolve, much to his dismay, and Danny obviously wasn't in the mood to back down easily.

"Why Dash?"

About there, Tucker gave up on getting Danny out of his room, at least for the time being, and switched to another approach. "Can we discuss this _without_ you pinning me to my bedroom floor?" he asked in what he considered to be a very reasonable tone of voice considering the circumstances.

Danny frowned. "Will you talk to me?"

"If you let me up, and agree to leave when we're done, then yes," said Tucker. Danny debated a moment longer, then released him, standing and offering a hand up; Tucker accepted. "So," Tucker began as soon as he was upright, "Dash. You have problems with him?"

"He's spent the large majority of his high school career making my life a living hell. He takes pleasure in my pain. Ninth grade year, shoving me into lockers practically became part of his morning routine—walk into school, pound on Fenton, fail a few subjects, walk out. Hell, he probably-"

"Okay, okay! So…you have problems with Dash," Tucker concluded. "Why does that make him unacceptable for me?"

"Because he's unacceptable period!" Danny insisted wildly. "He's evil, Tucker! He's like…the kind of kid who eats puppies for breakfast! He rejoices in the misery of others and-"

"_Puppies_, Danny?" Tucker interrupted, utterly incredulous. "Really, I think you've blown him a bit out of proportion over the years. He's not-"

"I don't trust him."

"Neither do I!" said Tucker, and Danny paused, taking a moment to consider this obviously unexpected piece of information.

"You…don't?" he asked.

"No," Tucker replied honestly, "but that doesn't make him a puppy-killing sadist…" At Danny's look, he sighed. "Look, can't you just accept that he might not be quite as awful as you have him cooked up to be?"

"I don't want to," Danny said. "I don't like him."

Tucker eyed his best friend, quiet and contemplative. Finally, he asked, "Is this really about Dash, Danny? Or you?"

Danny frowned. "Neither. It's about you." Tucker waited. "And, well, maybe some about me…and probably very little about Dash…except that he really is a cruel sadistic bast-"

"So it's about you and me?" Tucker interrupted, and Danny opened his mouth, paused, then shut it, frown deepening. "Because that's what you just said," Tucker repeated. "You said it was about me, and then some about you…and if it wasn't really much about Dash then that would make it about you and me. Right?"

"Well…I…maybe, but…" Danny's brow furrowed. "It's just… That's not how I meant it to come out, alright?" he said, sounding irritated.

"Oh?" Tucker folded his arms. "Enlighten me."

"Look, I just…think you can do better than Dash."

"I thought this wasn't about Dash."

Danny scowled. "Okay, so I think you can do better, period. You deserve more than a pompous ass jerk who sees you as nothing more than something to mess with in his spare time when he can't get his girlfriend to spread her legs fast enough. You-"

"And you believe that?"

"Of course I…" Danny faltered. "You don't think that's how _I_-"

"Dash doesn't have a girlfriend, Danny."

"Oh, no, you're right, Tucker. I forgot. He has ten!" Danny snapped. "You think he doesn't screw half the cheer squad on a daily basis? He's the fucking quarterback! He'll never give a damn about a nerd with an affinity for anything to do with html or the binary code. He probably doesn't even know what the binary code is. He-"

"You think I don't _know_ this? I never asked him to give a damn, Danny! And frankly, I don't expect him to. It's not my business if he does half the cheer squad, or the whole cheer squad for that matter, monogamy isn't part of…well…whatever the hell it is we have. He's handy and attractive and willing and…that's about as far as it goes at this point…alright?"

Danny eyed him, disbelieving. "And you expect me to believe you're satisfied with that?"

Tucker looked away. "I barely know him, Danny, okay? Until about two weeks ago, I never talked to him. Since then, the grand total of our conversations can be summed up as either physics, or something along the lines of: oh, yes, higher, lower, faster, or insert curse word here. I could tell you his cock size way before I could guess his favorite color. I-"

"Alright, alright! I get it," Danny said. "But…you still didn't answer my question."

"Which one was that?"

"The one where I asked if that kind of a thing would satisfy you…?" At Tucker's silence, Danny sighed. "Look…I just don't want you to get hurt, okay? I know I don't have any right to dictate who you're with…or not with, for that matter…but I think I do have a right to worry, and to tell you that, if you insist on continuing to mess with that rat bastard, that I'm here and very, very ready to beat the living daylights out of him for you the second he steps out of line, okay?"

Tucker sighed, lips twitching dangerously close to a smile, totally of their own accord. "Why does this sound so familiar?" he asked.

"Because I feel the same way now as I did the last time we talked about Dash…except that last time I didn't know we were talking about Dash, only some guy dragging you off to the movies. Now that I know who we're dealing with, I've added violence to the equation, because I know it's justified."

Tucker shook his head. "Look, Danny…it's not that I don't appreciate the concern, but I have no intention of getting my heart broken over a guy who cringes at the sight of long division. Yes, you're right. Generally, I don't approve of all-for-naught, strictly need-based relationships…but for now, that's what I've got, and I'm willing to run with it. I think I can handle myself, alright?"

"I never said you couldn't," Danny murmured. "Just…promise you'll let me know if something happens? If anything changes?"

"If he tries to pull macho-football player, abusive boyfriend crap on me, you'll be the first to hear about it, okay? And, if at any point I start confessing my undying love for him…you have my full permission to knock some sense into me."

"That's a promise?"

"Yes, Danny," Tucker said. "That's a promise."

"Right, well…I'll leave you to your troll slaying, then." But Danny didn't move, just stood there, staring at the carpet and running a hand over the back of his neck idly. Finally, he frowned. "Tucker, are you _sure_ he's a better-"

"_Yes_, Danny, I'm sure."

"But how can you be?" Danny asked imploringly. "I haven't kissed you in ages." Tucker opened his mouth to point out that there were several good, solid reasons for that, but then Danny was right _there_, and his words faltered. "Maybe I've gotten better since the last time you kissed me…" Danny said quietly, hovering, barely a hair's breadth away, and if Tucker had tilted his head, just a fraction of an inch…

Swallowing his pulse, Tucker turned away. "I guess I'll never know, will I?" he said.

Danny's sigh rippled across his cheek. "I guess not," he consented, and with that, his form shimmered, becoming fainter, more transparent by the second. "For his sake, you better hope he keeps himself in check, Tucker." Danny was barely visible now, little more than a shadow as he backed away into the center of the room. "One false step…" He was nothing but a voice, suspended in the darkness, "…and I'll kill him." Then, with the surety of a sixth sense, Tucker knew he was gone.

Immediately, he sagged against the bookcase. Suddenly, the ultimate fate of the troll king Zaharuth didn't concern him in the slightest, and, cursing Danny, Dash, fate, hormones, and most of the rest of the world in general, Tucker hobbled, week-kneed, to his bed, and promptly collapsed, not even bothering to undress. He sincerely hoped Dash was having a better night than he was.

**A/N: ***mournful sigh* One of these days, you two. One of these days. This time around it's Dash's turn, fair and square, but _dang_ I think these two could be cute together if given a good chance. Hmm. Review, review? :) I really should have just edited this story down so it could have been rated T. I have a feeling I'd have had more readers…pah. That's retrospect for ya.


	9. Collisions

**Chapter Nine:**  
Collisions

"—you think?"

Dash frowned around a large spoonful of overcooked peas, notified by Paulina's pause that her last comment required his input. "Erm," he grunted unintelligibly, downing his mouthful in a single gulp. "What'd 'ou say?" he asked, words slightly garbled by another serving of mushy veggies, an efficient—if not so tasteful—method of avoiding too much conversation.

She rolled her eyes. "I said," she began again, but Dash had already lost interest.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, lifting his head every time the lunchroom doors gave to admit another gaggle of lunch-bound students. Each time, however, unfamiliar—or at least inconsequential—faces disappointed him, and he turned back to his food. Finally, Paulina grew weary of his antics, giving an exasperated sigh, exaggerated to the point where he could no more pretend to ignore it than a foghorn, and, reluctantly, he turned his attention to her.

"What are you expecting to come through those doors, huh?" she asked, obviously irritated. "Who are you waiting for?"

"No—" Dash started to say "no one," but then, the doors opened, immediately followed by a very familiar voice, and he turned before he could stop himself. His sentence would remain forever unfinished; Tucker had entered the lunchroom.

"Dash?" Paulina prompted, to no avail. "_Dash_-" she snapped again, this time a good deal louder, and Dash jerked back to face her, cheeks a guilty pink.

"What?" he asked, trying his best to look innocent. "I was, umm…" No suitable excuse came to mind. Thankfully, Paulina gladly filled the space with her own rant.

"I," she emphasized, "am far more important than anything coming through that door, okay? So I would appreciate it, if-"

"Do you think Tucker's-" Dash faltered about a quarter second before blurting "hot," and fumbled over the rest of the question, ending with a vague "err…" and a frown as he realized he probably shouldn't have even begun to ask in the first place.

Paulina looked puzzled more than anything else. "Do I think who is what?" she asked.

Dash poked at his peas, then swallowed and squared his shoulders, intent on retaining every ounce of dignity possible at this point. "Foley," he said, editing his choice of words to avoid giving the wrong impression. "Do you think he's…attractive?"

Paulina wrinkled her nose, eyes flitting briefly over to where Tucker now stood in line with his geek squad, then back to Dash, disbelieving. "_Why_?" she asked, and Dash racked his brain for a suitable answer.

"I…uh…don't know," he filled in vaguely. "I guess I was just…wondering what girls are interested in, that's all. I mean…he's not that bad, right? Yeah, he's a geek but…he's not fat or scarred or retarded or anything… You'd figure he could at least get some shrimpy nerd girl…right?"

Paulina frowned, but seemed, for the most part, to accept his answer, and proceeded to inspect Tucker in earnest. "I guess," she said eventually. "Maybe. I mean…if he dressed half decent, lost the glasses, put on some muscle and grew…oh…four or five inches…then yeah, he might be _passably_ attractive. But…still…_why_?"

"Dunno," Dash shrugged, taking a chunk out of his cheeseburger and reaching for the chocolate milk. "It's just…you know…spending time with him in tutoring…I wonder if he might not be so bad…if he had someone to do stuff with, you know? Besides Fenton and that chick, I mean. He might not be so…uptight about his studies…"

Paulina raised her eyebrows. "Oh, now I see," she said knowingly, and Dash looked up from a mouthful of cheeseburger. "You just want him to get a girlfriend so you don't have to spend so much time in tutoring."

"Urm…" Dash, thanking fate for his mouthful of food, opted not to reply; Paulina only snickered and shook her head.

"Fat chance, muscle man," she teased. "That boy gets a date when the moon turns green. You're better off praying for a bomb to hit the school. Besides…" She prodded her salad, untouched since she'd sat down. "I'm pretty sure he's gay anyway."

Dash choked on his cheeseburger. A prolonged fit of coughing ensued, followed by a rather strangled, "What…makes you say…that?" broken up by interspersed attempts to dislodge whatever piece of his burger had managed to wedge itself firmly in the back of his throat.

Paulina looked concerned. "Are you alr-"

"Fine," Dash managed rather unconvincingly, wincing around a painful swallow and rubbing his neck. "Totally fine. Umm…just…what makes you think he's…I mean how would you…"

Paulina, still eyeing him warily, shrugged. "I…don't know. I mean…it's sort of obvious, right?"

Dash allowed himself a stray glance in Tucker's direction—no rainbow bracelets, multiple ear piercings, flamboyantly pink and purple school attire or any other flashing neon sign declarations of homosexuality. "Err…no?" he ventured. Paulina rolled her eyes.

"Last year?" she prompted.

"Umm…" Dash tried to think back—not much came to mind. "What about it?" he asked.

"You didn't see the way he…?" Apparently, he still looked clueless, because she shook her head, aghast. "Last year was the most obvious, but he's been head over heels for Fenton since ninth grade, and if you ask me, they've been a little more than just friends for-"

"Foley and _Fenton_?" Dash exclaimed, drawing more than a couple stares and not caring in the least. "But what about that goth chick? I always thought…" At Paulina's look, he swallowed. "I mean…not like it matters…but…" He glanced to the line once more, and suddenly, Fenton was _way_ too close to Tucker, and though the urge to smash his face in was familiar, the intensity was not, and it unnerved him. Forcing himself to turn back to his food, he scowled. Like hell it didn't matter.

"Her too," Paulina was saying, "but when she gets prissy with Fenton, he turns to Foley as backup. Or, at least he used to, I think they got in some sort of spit near the end of last year, because they weren't even talking for awhile."

Dash was still trying to wrap his head around the idea of Tucker and Fenton—_together_—without storming his seat and wringing Fenton's neck. At least now he knew where Tucker learned to give head, he tried to console himself, but somehow, the thought wasn't very comforting.

"How do you know all this?" he asked, trying rather unsuccessfully to distract himself. Across from him, Paulina shrugged.

"You don't stay on top without dirt, Dash. I make everyone's business my business, even those at the bottom of the food chain, and then, no one's a threat. You'd be surprised what lengths people go to to keep their secrets secret…not that Foley and Fenton were hiding anything, but for some people…it would be ruinous to their reputation if anyone found out such a thing."

Dash swallowed. "Is that…right? I mean, using people's private business to…"

"…get what I want?" she finished. "Perhaps not. But it's the way of life. Besides…what do you care? It's not like you have anything to hide. Right?" Her smile was positively feral, reminding Dash of those beautiful, wicked witches from the little kid's fairytale cartoons he used to watch when he was younger, and suddenly, Dash wasn't very hungry anymore. She laughed. "Don't worry," she soothed, "if I thought you were a faggot in the closet, I wouldn't tell…unless you did something to piss me off."

Then—did she just wink at him? Dash felt sick to his stomach and hastened to stand, nearly falling from his chair in the process. "I'm…gonna throw this away," he said, gathering his lunch tray, and Paulina looked surprised.

"Already?" she asked. "But you haven't even eaten your…" But Dash was gone, out of earshot, and certainly not paying any attention.

_A faggot in the closet…_

Did that mean she knew? Or suspected? She might have just been teasing, but, honestly, what were the chances of that? Then there was the Tucker and Fenton issue—and the fact that he cared at all was almost an issue in itself. Dash swore. His life was supposed to be nice, simple, and straight forward, not a mangled mess of—

"Hey! What's the big idea?" someone sniped as Dash, not paying attention, accidentally bumped into them, and he turned with every intention of growling some threatening comeback and moving on his way. Instead, he came face to face with Danny Fenton. Fenton didn't miss a beat. "Why don't you watch where you're going, huh?" he snapped. "Other people walk here too, you know. Maybe-"

"Come on, Danny," that goth girl appeased, tugging at Fenton's shirt sleeve, "he's not worth it. Let's go. Tucker's already sitting down."

"But-" Fenton looked unsatisfied, and Dash flexed his grip on his tray, the only thing currently keeping his fist from flying between those beady blue eyes. "Fine," Fenton eventually consented, not a moment too soon, "but next time, pay more attention to where you're stepping, alright?"

And that was it. Dash was dropping his tray right there and teaching the little smart-assed shrimp a thing or two about where to step and who to mess with—or, at least he was going to, until he realized his tray was already dropping. Fast. He hadn't thought he'd fumbled it, and he certainly hadn't knocked into anyone else, but sure enough, the next thing he knew it was just—gone—as if it had fallen straight _through_ his palms just as Fenton had turned away, and then it was down, down. _Crash_!

Dash almost jumped, swearing loudly enough for anyone in the vicinity—teacher or otherwise—to hear. Then, cursing his luck and his fate and leaving Fenton for another day, he stooped to pick up his tray, now nothing but a smattered mess of green mush, chocolate milk, and—well, fuck—the mashed potatoes had gone just about everywhere. Especially his pants.

He vaguely registered angry words from across the room in a voice that sounded a lot like Tucker's, but spectators and other swarming students blocked his view. Then, someone pushed through the crowd and there was a snow of napkins seconds before slim brown fingers joined his in the clean up. When he looked up though, Tucker wasn't even looking at him, just scowling at the mess as he swooped through it with his mountains of tissue, muttering harsh words beneath his breath.

"Tucker, what-" Dash began, but Tucker waved him off shaking his head.

"Sorry if this is tainting your image-"

"No, it's-"

"-but it's just he's such an ass sometimes, and don't know what he was thinking but I swear I'll be out of here in just a second-"

"Who's an a-"

"-and what the heck were you eating anyway? This stuff is disgusting. It looks…" When Tucker finally lifted his head, he frowned. "You know you've got gravy and milk like…" He made a vague sweeping motion all over, and Dash nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

"Right." In one quick swipe, Tucker shoveled the messy clump of soaked napkins onto Dash's tray, grimacing slightly at the final result. Not a pretty picture. "You'll need to dump that," he advised, "and then head to the bathroom to try and get at least some of that off your clothes. I'll…" He glanced as his hands and pursed his lips. "Actually…I need to wash up too."

"But, wait," Dash called as Tucker stood. "Who's…" But Tucker was gone, swallowed up in the crowds as he made his way to the bathroom, and Dash sighed, gathering his sullied tray and dumping it with good riddance before following in his footsteps, making a strong effort to ignore the pointed stares and questioning looks he received along the way.

By the time he escaped the cafeteria, made it down the hall and into the bathroom, Tucker was drying his hands, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, trying to turn the wet faucet off with his wrist. He looked up at Dash's entrance.

"There you are," he said. "I wondered how long it would take you to escape that throng." He dumped the crumpled remains of his paper towels in the receptacle. "You should probably see how much of that you can get off just by dabbing and save soap and water for only the toughest spots. Otherwise, you'll end up with a mess, and probably have to suffer through wet pants all day. You could try-"

"Who's the ass?" Dash asked.

Tucker blinked, thrown. "The…what?"

"The ass." Dash stepped in fully, letting the door shut behind him and walking over to draw some paper towels from the dispenser. "You were apologizing and calling someone an ass but-"

"Oh," Tucker said, and then he looked away, frowning. "Um…never mind that," he said. "I guess I was just…muttering to myself. It really wasn't…" Apparently, Dash's disbelief showed, because when Tucker met his gaze again, his fumbling halted. "Danny," he said finally. "Danny's an ass. But that really doesn't have anything to do with-"

"It wasn't his fault the tray fell," said Dash, surprising himself immensely. Defending Fenton was the last thing he'd planned on doing. But, Tucker only scowled.

"Oh, no, of course not," he agreed, sounding strangely sarcastic. "It couldn't possibly have been Danny's fault because he never…" About there, he appeared to give up some internal argument and just sighed, shaking his head. "You know, never mind. You're right. I'm just mad at him, is all. I…I really should go. Sorry you got pasted, and good luck with your pants, but if I hang around any longer-"

"Hey, wait," Dash called, sidestepping to block Tucker's path and nearly causing a collision. "I never said, umm…thanks," he said, and Tucker eyed him curiously, sleeves still rolled up to his elbows, green eyes owlish with puzzlement behind his glasses, and surely no one had a right to look that cute—especially not in a baggy turtle neck and cargo pants.

"It was no problem. Really," he said eventually.

"Right. Well, thanks," Dash said, mind racing for something, anything, to say to delay Tucker just a little longer, and then— "Are you and Fenton together?" he blurted, moments before Tucker's hand reached the door, and Tucker froze on the spot. After several long seconds, he turned.

"Who told you that?" he asked quietly. Dash swallowed.

"Paulina said you were with him all last year," he admitted, figuring he was beyond hiding the truth now, "that you've liked him since ninth grade."

Tucker lingered by the door, eyes scrutinizing as they scanned him, leaving no detail unnoted. Finally, he snorted, folding his arms and turning his gaze to the floor. "And was all this before, or after, you fucked her?" he asked coldly.

Dash's jaw dropped, dumbfounded. "How did you-"

"Know?" Tucker scoffed. "Please. She's been pawing you all day, practically drooling—it's pretty disgusting, actually." He raised his head, meeting Dash's staggered gaze with a pursed frown. "I suppose I didn't know for sure, really, until now, but I guessed. Correctly, apparently. It's kinda hard to miss if you're paying any attention at all…and did you know you had lipstick on your neck? No, no, no! Don't touch it," Tucker scolded as soon as Dash, instinctively, raised his hand towards his neck. "Your hands are filthy, and you'll get gravy everywhere. Here, just," He sighed, shaking his head and stalking back into the room with a scowl, "wait one second, okay? We need to talk."

Dash stared, struck speechless, as Tucker disappeared without another word into one of the bathroom stalls.

_We need to talk._

The words echoed in his head with a sort of eerie ripple effect and he wondered if that phrase had ever been—in the history of all relationships, ever—a good sign. Probably not, he concluded as Tucker reemerged with about four squares of toilet paper, promptly spitting on them.

"Tucker, what-" he began, but Tucker waved him off.

"Shh," he reprimanded. "Just hold still," was the command as Tucker slipped a hand behind his neck, keeping him in place when he attempted to shirk from the touch. "Relax. It won't kill you."

"Well, yeah, but…tap water-"

"-doesn't work as well," Tucker finished for him, raising the dampened tissue to his neck. "Lipstick clings. Besides," It wasn't actually so bad, having Tucker pressed up against his chest, rubbing his throat, "it's not like you haven't come in contact with my spit before." And okay maybe, just maybe, Dash could get used to this.

Was it wrong, he wondered, to be more attracted to a nerd scrubbing spit into his neck in a public school bathroom than a cheerleader trying to drag him off alone down a moonlit beach? Probably, he concluded as he observed Tucker's sternly furrowed brow and tightly pursed lips and decided that he definitely, definitely wanted to kiss him senseless.

"So why was Paulina talking about me, anyway?" Tucker asked, drawing Dash from his reverie, and he blinked, distracted. "Aren't geeks and losers usually the farthest thing from her mind?"

"Oh, umm…I asked her today…if she thought you were attractive," Dash admitted, and Tucker's head snapped up, surprised. "I think she thought I'd gone crazy."

Tucker snorted. "I'm not surprised," he said. "I'd have thought you'd gone crazy, too." He dropped his hand from Dash's neck, pulling it back to reveal a small pink stain. "So," he asked, "what did she tell you? That I was a hideous, scrawny nerd-beast to be avoided at all costs?"

"No…" Dash's eyes followed Tucker to the trash receptacle, starting at his sneakers and working steadily up, only to get caught on an ass not even puke-green army cargos could hide. "She said you were short…and skinny…and had awful fashion sense."

Tucker glanced over his shoulder, a single eyebrow arched elegantly as he disposed of the tissue. "Oh?" He brushed his hands on his pants, then turned, hooking his thumbs on his pockets and leaning back against the nearest sink as he came to face Dash. "And do you agree with her?" he asked.

Dash eyed the figure before him: barely breaking the five foot mark, thin as a rail and garbed much like his grandmother's clothesline in the summer, he had to admit, Paulina had a point. He shrugged. "Kinda, yeah," he said, "but she made it sound sneery and nasty. Instead of short, skinny and out of style I'd say it more like," He searched carefully for the right words as he started across the room, "Small, slender, and…umm…" By this point, he'd reduced the space between them from about ten feet to two, and Tucker had his head tilted back, eyes lifted to meet his gaze.

"And what?" he prompted, unfazed despite being virtually trapped to the sink at this point. "What of my 'lack of fashion sense'?"

Dash's eyes darted from the loose, roomy neck on Tucker's top to the draped cargos he felt sure would slip to the floor at any given moment granted even the least bit of encouragement, and grinned.

"I don't know, I think I like your clothes," he concluded, leaning in to place a hand on the sink on either side of Tucker's waist and further reinforcing the sense of entrapment. "They look easy to take off." It was strangely thrilling, Dash thought, to watch those steadfast green eyes widen comically behind their glasses, and he chuckled—deep and dark and nothing if not self-satisfied. "You should let me test that for you sometime."

The sound Tucker made then reminded Dash of a cross between a small dog and a chipmunk, quickly muffled, and almost immediately followed by hands on his chest that did very little, if anything, to put distance between them. "R-right…well, fun as that sounds," he said with the tremulous air of cornered prey, "I really should be getting back to my lunch, and you haven't even started work on your pants yet, so that gravy's probably drying on there as we speak, and-"

"Tucker?"

"Um…hm?"

"You know something?"

"Mm…what?"

"You talk too much."

"O-oh."

And then—Paulina, Fenton, and gravy stains be damned—Dash kissed him, and pity on the poor soul who walked in then because Dash Baxter had Tucker Foley shoved up against a bathroom sink with his tongue down his throat, and anyone who happened to walk in would have had to come down with a forcible case of concussion-induced amnesia. Fortunately, the door remained closed.

"But," Tucker panted as soon as they parted, "Paulina-"

"-was the absolutely fucking _worst_ lay…of my life," Dash finished, equally breathless. "I would have much rather," Suddenly 'fucked you,' didn't seem like quite the appropriate ending to that sentence, so Dash revised it midstream, concluding with, "spent the weekend with you," instead.

"But…she's a _cheerleader_," Tucker argued incredulously. "Rich, hot, popular-"

"-and noisy," Dash added, "don't forget noisy. I mean, talk about a dairy farm…she bitches and moans about _everything_…"

"But she's beautiful!" Tucker insisted. "Tall, slim, curvy…gorgeous hair from her empty head to her perfect ass. She-"

"-stuffs her bra, Tucker," Dash interrupted, point blank. "Her hair gets everywhere, and after yours…no one's ass is perfect."

"But…" Tucker's argument faltered, his cheeks warming to a delicious rosy brown, and he dipped his gaze, pouting dolefully. "You do realize you're absolutely ruining all my pre-conceived notions about cheerleaders, right?"

Dash snorted and, unable to resist, leaned down, catching Tucker's pout in an easy kiss. "They're not all they're cracked up to be," he said. "Trust me." And Tucker 'hmmed,' obviously not thoroughly convinced, but content enough to relent to more kissing, in any case.

"If you say so," he murmured.

"I do," Dash assured him.

"Hn."

"Oh, and speaking of Paulina…"

"Yeah?"

"What am I doing this weekend?"

Tucker blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Dash clarified, "if I'm not doing something, she'll want me to do something, so I need _you_ to tell me what I'm doing _now_, so I _won't_ be able to do anything with _her_ when she asks…"

Tucker rose his eyebrows. "She really wasn't very good, was she?"

"Umm…no."

Tucker snickered. "Right, well, in that case…" He took a moment, then said, "You got a poor grade on your last Biology exam, so your teacher said you needed some extra credit, and you agreed to go to the astronomy observation this Saturday to help pull your grade up. Viola! No time for a date."

Dash considered this. "Astronomy," he repeated thoughtfully. "That's like…with stars, right?"

Tucker stared. After a long moment, he nodded slowly. "Yes, Dash…stars."

"Right. So I'm going to this…gathering of nerds in the dark…just to pull up my Biology grade and avoid Paulina?" he asked, and Tucker looked down, hooking his thumbs together nervously.

"Well, yeah…mostly…and to pull up your other grades too because a lot of teachers are actually giving credit if you sign your name on the guest list and it's really pretty…especially if the sky is clear and the stars are out and they give talks about the constellations and…umm…well…" Tucker swallowed. "I mean…_I'll_ probably be there…you know…since I go every Saturday unless…err…something comes up…"

Well, fuck, if you put it _that_ way. "Are you asking me out?" Dash asked, and Tucker blushed hotly.

"Well as long as you're straight and I don't date guys, then I couldn't possibly be, could I?" he replied curtly. "No. On the contrary, I'm merely suggesting a manner of escaping your girlfriend's clutches that will both raise your GPA…and…erm…put us in about the same place at about the same time on Saturday night."

Dash snorted, smirking broadly. "Sounds like a plan to me," he said. "But Tucker?" Tucker lifted his head. "Something better not come up…'cause there is no way I show up at a grand nerd-fest under the stars without a nerd to guide me through it, you got it?"

"Oh, I got it," Tucker said, and they were about two fractions of an inch from more lips, and maybe some tongue, and definitely a little clutching and hip rolling when—

"Dash?" Kwan's voice had the effect of a bombshell, sending Dash and Tucker fleeing each other faster than roaches from a kitchen light. By the time he made it fully in the room, he found Tucker nursing his lower back where he'd scrambled and hit the paper towel dispenser, and Dash sort of swaying, slightly off-kilter, over near the bathroom stalls, looking more flushed and bewildered than anything else. "Here you are," he said. "I thought I saw you come in here, but…" He frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Uh…" Somewhere between opening his mouth and waiting for words to come out, Dash realized that "Making out with Tucker Foley, discussing the horrors of straight sex, and arranging a Saturday night in the dark with someone at the rock bottom of the social ladder" probably wouldn't sound very good out loud, so he frowned. "I was…cleaning."

"Dude, what happened to your pants?"

Dash glanced down. Oh. Right. "Uh…food," he said. Across the room, Tucker gave him an odd look, and Dash blushed. "I mean, um…my tray. It…the food…fell. That's why I'm…cleaning it up." Smooth, Dash. Real smooth.

"Right," Kwan replied. "Well, good luck with that, man. It's just, you know, you've been in here like…twenty minutes. Lunch is almost over, and everyone was kinda wondering…" He glanced to Tucker, eying him with a sort of odd, curious expression for a moment, then shook his head and skipped over him without comment. "Whatever, man. I'll just tell Paulina you've been cleaning your pants and uh…hope you make some progress soon, okay?"

"Okay…right," said Dash. And then, wonderfully, blissfully, Kwan was gone—quick as he'd come.

Tucker raised his eyebrows. "Well, you heard him," he said, leaning up off the towel dispenser and twisting his back gingerly, "better get to work on those pants…lunch is almost over."

"Oh…yeah…but wait!" Dash called, halting Tucker for the last time just as he reached the door, and he gave Dash an inquiring look as he paused. "So I'll…see you," Dash said, "in umm…physics?"

"Yeah, Dash," Tucker confirmed, looking curiously pleased. "Physics."

"And Saturday," Dash added, "at seven?"

"Seven in the park," Tucker nodded, and Dash grinned sheepishly.

"Right. Okay. I'll be there."

Tucker smiled, moved to open the door, but then, at the last second, held back just once more. "Hey, Dash…?"

"Yeah?" Dash had gone to wet his paper towels, and looked up from the sink as he spoke.

"I know this might sound like an odd question but…what's your favorite color?"

Dash blinked, mildly thrown, then replied, "Blue," without hardly thinking. "Why?"

"Oh, umm…" From this distance, he couldn't really see, but Dash could have sworn Tucker was blushing again. "No reason," he said. "Thanks, though. Bye!"

"Bye," Dash said, but Tucker had already gone, and as he shook his head, turning off the sink and kneeling to begin scrubbing on the now partially crusted-over, gravy-stained pants, Dash found himself wondering what Tucker's favorite color was, and if maybe, just maybe, he would date him if he weren't straight.


	10. Gravity

**A/N:** Hey, hey, hey! This story has finally caught up to the point where what goes up here is _recent_. Cheers for me? Maybe? That, or just know that updates may be slowing down soon-ish. (Well, ok, not THAT soon - but still.)

**Chapter Ten:**  
Gravity

Six-fifty, his watch read, and Tucker shivered, stuffing his hands back in the pockets of his sweatshirt and drawing his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing absently. It was a beautiful night—calm and clear. Perfect for stargazing, but _cold_. The lack of cloud cover meant direct loss of heat to the heavens—mother earth tossing off the covers for the night—and though that was good from a practical standpoint, making for a clearer view of the constellations and such, it also meant Tucker had a long night of shivering ahead. His body didn't retain heat well.

Sighing, he tilted his head back and shut his eyes, drawing a deep breath and feeling the chilled air work its way down his throat, into his lungs. There, he held it, counting the seconds in his head. The last time he'd checked, he could hold his breath for almost two minutes, but this time, he opened his eyes and let it out on thirty, watching the steam curl up like misty dragon's breath, twisting and rolling over itself before finally fading off into the dark. After it disappeared completely, he let his head drop back down and flicked his wrist out of the confines of his sweatshirt, forcing it to brave the cold in order to check his watch again.

"Expecting someone?"

Tucker barely stifled a very undignified sound, nearly tripping over himself in an attempt to turn but, caught off-guard, he spun too slow, and a moment later found himself trapped—back to a hard chest, eyes covered, and mouth securely muzzled by a gloved palm.

When a familiar voice whispered, "Guess who?" into the crook of his neck, Tucker groaned aloud, barely audible through the fabric.

Unfortunately, due to the nature of his position, his accusation of, "Dash!" came out a great deal more like, "Dmmph…" than anything else and earned him little more than a soft chuckle from his captor.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dash murmured, though he didn't sound it, "I don't think I caught that. Could you repeat it?" And Tucker glowered.

"Dmmsh, mm-mmph," he whined inarticulately, and Dash clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

"Nope," he said, taking a step forward and leaving Tucker no choice but to move with him. "I still didn't get that. Maybe you should wait a minute," Dash flipped him around effortlessly, "and then," Tucker's back hit something solid—probably a tree, "try again."

The last words tickled his cheek, a teasing brush of heat and breath. Then, the muffling glove retreated, and before Tucker could so much as consider another attempt at getting a word in edgewise, a sound kiss descended, stifling all objections in their outset.

Dash—tasted of spearmint. His lips teased, warm and soothing in contrast to Tucker's chilled ones and a shiver unrelated to evening temperatures raced up Tucker's spine, the sensation tickling up, then spiraled down, and taking tension with it when it fizzled out. He relaxed into Dash's pin. It took a heated battle for property rights to Dash's gum before—in the face of impending defeat—Dash made a strategic withdrawal, nipping Tucker's lip in something of a playful reprimand when he snickered.

"Cheater," he accused softly, and Tucker 'hmphed.'

"Chicken," he retorted, blinking dimly when the glove pulled back and squinting upwards with a grin towards his captor. "You were the one who clucked out before I could thrash you properly. Not to mention…" He resettled his glasses, smug. "You're early."

"Hn," Dash leaned in as he grunted, dismissing the comment with a lazy shrug as his lips found the corner between Tucker's neck and chin, curious explorations stirring up promises of another shiver from somewhere deep at the base of his spine, or maybe his toes. "First," Dash muttered, "wasn't about to be thrashed…" and Tucker opened his mouth to raise issue with that but, "an' maybe…" somewhere along the line Dash's spare hand must have snaked its way under the layers of shirt and jacket because now there were thinly gloved fingers skirting low along Tucker's stomach and back, doing fizzley, irrational things to his thought process and, "I'm eager for something…" it was no mystery to Tucker why high schools had issues with teen pregnancy.

He swallowed.

"Dash…" His breath curled out shakier than he might have liked, a steamy column of hot air winding up, into the night, and it wasn't hard to find the waist of Dash's jeans, hook his fingers through the empty belt loops and pull, tugging the larger, harder body just a fraction closer and—Dash buried a groan in the crook of his neck.

"Tucker-"

"We should-"

"-forget astronomy, study anatomy?"

Tucker shut his eyes, body shuddering responsively as Dash rolled his hips forward, and his grip in the hoops tightened. "Well, yes, or just-"

"Fuck?"

"-find someplace _darker_ before someone-"

"Hey, Tucker!" A voice called out from somewhere behind Dash, fast approaching, and Dash's head hit Tucker's shoulder. "Tucker, is that you?"

"You're kidding me, right?" Dash murmured into his shirt, little more than a muddled grumble, and Tucker gave a sympathetic half-smile.

"Sounds like one of the regulars," he replied, pulling reluctantly away as Dash stepped back and to the side, and forcing his smile a fraction wider when the new arrival came into clear view. "Yup… Natalie," he greeted.

"I thought it was you!" the new girl announced proudly, red curls bobbing as she bounded into a stop, her grin broad. "You've been standing over here for a while," she scolded. "Why didn't you just-" Her words skittered to a halt, eyes flicking up from Tucker to Dash, and she made no secret of the slow, comprehensive once-over that followed. Once finished, she rose her eyebrows and looked back to Tucker, smirk mischievous. "Thought you didn't date guys, Tuck?" she purred.

Cue: blush—Tucker shifted awkwardly. "I, uh-"

"He doesn't," said Dash, coming to his rescue, folding his arms as if asking for a challenge—probably still irritated about being interrupted—and Tucker turned his smile to the grass, nodding in agreement and nudging a thumb towards Dash.

"Yeah, and anyway, he's straight," he explained, returning the favor.

Natalie glanced between them. "Ah, I see…so, he's single then?" she asked, suddenly a little too hopeful for Tucker's tastes, but something about the way Dash shifted behind him, leaning barely perceptibly closer and almost reaching out—but withdrawing a second before making contact—waylaid fears that shouldn't have existed and made Tucker's head light and stomach giddy to an extent he wasn't quite ready to admit to, and maybe he imagined it, but probably not since something dawned then in Natalie's eyes and she said, "_Oh_," slightly more loudly than was totally necessary and snickered. Maybe Tucker would straighten her out later. Maybe. "Ok, well…I just came over 'cause Mrs. Kulwakalski said she wanted to see you. We're setting up the telescope now, so come over when you're ready, m'kay? Have fun." And with that, she left.

Watching her go, Tucker wondered vaguely if they were really that good or just that damn obvious.

"So," said Dash, breaking his concentration, "that was…"

"Natalie," said Tucker. He frowned, then motioned his head in the direction she'd skipped off. "C'mon, we should sign in…get some chart print-outs and stuff before we attract more attention…"

"Your friend?" asked Dash, following when he started off towards the slowly gathering crowd. "I haven't seen her at school."

Tucker shrugged, snatching two sheets of star charts off the top of the pile when they arrived and handing Dash a pen as he pointed to the sign-in sheet. "Name there," he said. "You haven't seen her 'cause she's from a different school and…" After Dash finished signing, he followed suit, "…yeah, I guess you'd say she's my friend."

"You guess?"

Tucker finished off his signature and replaced the pen, straightening up. "I kina dated her for about half a week or so sophomore year," he explained, "but we've been pretty friendly afterwards."

"Kina dated?" repeated Dash, accepting a star-chart with a puzzled frown when Tucker held one out to him.

"Yeah, _kina_," said Tucker, ignoring Dash's look and moving out, away again, farther from the artificial light and crowd. "I found out about three days in she was only hanging out with me to piss off her ex, so…it didn't really amount to much." A good ways out, Tucker paused, glancing up and squinting to the stars for a moment before nodding. "Here will do. It's far enough away from all the bustle and lights so we should be able to see well enough, and…" At Dash's silence Tucker glanced over—only to find Dash's eyes intent on him, expression riddled with a strange, unreadable quality. Tucker shifted consciously. "What?"

"Hasn't anyone ever dated you just to…I don't know…date _you_?" asked Dash, sounding almost—irritated?—and Tucker blinked, surprised. "I mean…I've heard nice guys finish last but you…you deserve…" The short spark of anger fizzled there, dispersing into a warmer, embarrassed glow across his cheeks, and Tucker watched, lost in the domino progression of expressions.

"I deserve what?" he ventured finally, prompting those vivid blue eyes to lift to his again and—it struck Tucker that sometimes it just wasn't _fair_ what Dash could do with a look like that. When a breeze gusted, he pulled his jacket closer, blaming the wind for his shiver.

"Just…I don't know…more? Maybe?" said Dash, grass crunching under his sneakers as he stepped closer. "I mean it just seems like…" Tucker watched the gust toss up blonde locks—loose for once—and thought of plays, the cinema: people who belonged on magazine covers, under the spotlight, not standing out in the cold, listening to nerds ramble and whine and—Dash's fingers brushed his cheek. "Hasn't anyone ever just _given_ a shit?"

Tucker opened his mouth, raking Dash's steady gaze for some sign of the joke, the hanging punch line—he found nothing. "I…" Swallowing, he dropped his gaze. "I didn't say that so you'd feel sorry for me," he muttered. "That was just one girl. I've…well, I mean I guess you're right…no one usually does give a shit but…it's not really a big deal, you know?" He looked up again, trying not to focus on the hand still lingering at his cheek, warm, linking them together. "I've just sort of…gotten used to it. It's not like I go emo and cry and cut myself over it, it's just kina…expected…for people to ignore the sidekick…"

"Tucker…"

"And besides," Tucker cut him off, acutely aware that Dash was significantly closer now, the steam of his breath rolling out, hitting Tucker's and then curling back, like some obscure, ghostly dance, "who ever told you I was a nice guy, huh?"

Dash snorted. "Tucker," he said, dropping his head so their foreheads touched, noses nearly brushing, "you are _the_ nice guy, ok? Like the…" He leaned back, reached a hand far above their heads, "_this_, of nice guys…"

"Epitome?" offered Tucker.

"Err…" Dash dropped his hand. "Sure," he muttered, "that sounds good…"

"Hn," Tucker hummed skeptically, "and what does that make you, then?" His lashes dropped with his eyes, falling to Dash's lips, _almost_ close enough to taste now. "The bad boy?"

Dash didn't miss the glance. "Nah…that requires more cursing, too much leather…and maybe a motorcycle…" Tucker snickered, pleased that it made Dash smile. "I'm more of a jeans and trucks guy, myself. I guess…I'm probably just the dumb jock."

"Hm," responded Tucker, giving in to the urge to reach up, flick back at a loose string of blonde and catch it between his fingers, tuck it behind Dash's ear. "But you're not dumb…not like you let people think…"

"Yeah, well," Dash's hand held nape of his neck, steadying him as he dipped, and the last of his words brushed Tucker's lips, "you're not a sidekick, either…"

On contact, Tucker's lashes dipped, heavy. The lingering denial _Yes I am_, echoed dully off the corners of his mind, but gradually, it faded out, unspoken under Dash's kiss, and as his lashes came to their final resting place on his cheeks, he decided that Dash definitely deserved some sort of first place prize for the innate ability to hand out weak knees at will. Because Dash didn't just hold—he _cradled_. He slid his hand to the small of Tucker's back and fit them together, curled his body like a human wall, making himself the barrier between Tucker and the rest of the world, and in that moment, Tucker wanted so _bad_ just to—give up.

He shuddered, the now trembling fingers of his spare hand fisting tightly in the shirt at Dash's chest as he fought, vainly as a novice swimmer, against the urge to sink into Dash's embrace—the battle made that much harder by the fact that he didn't want to fight anymore, so much easier to just give, for once—bend, like a reed under riptide. And he wanted to. He wanted to…

Forget—_that Dash had a girlfriend, that this didn't mean anything, that football players never really dated tech geeks, and that they were seniors, surely bound for infinitely different paths in less than a year's time_—pretend—_that Dash meant it when he said he wanted him, that he wasn't a just a sidekick, and that somehow, someway things really would just work out in the end, and everything would be alright, and…_

"S-shit…" The curse spilled out, weak, shaky, breathless—and a thousand times steadier than Tucker felt as he forced himself to pull back. "Dash, you…you can't…" When his head dropped, falling of its own accord and burying in the refuge of Dash's chest and Dash's arms slid up his back, holding just a little closer, pulling just a little tighter—he wasn't sure if he had escaped anything or not.

The words "Can't what?" rustled softly against the top of his head, and Tucker squeezed his eyes tighter.

"You can't…_kiss_ me like that," he scolded, knowing it was muffled, and sulky, and ridiculously unspecific, but not caring at all—Dash was close, warm, and _holding_ him, and right then it didn't matter that that felt infinitely better than it probably should have.

"Kiss you like what?" asked Dash, "And…why not?"

"Like…" Tucker lifted his head, _you mean it_, he thought, "_that_," he said aloud, "like you just did…and because," His voice dropped, quieter, "you're gonna make me start…you know…actually _liking_ you…" and Dash snorted.

"Yeah, well, that only sounds fair," he murmured, catching Tucker's chin and lifting, "'cause I already like you…" and Tucker's heart drop-clench-stutter-jumped. He opened his mouth, but nothing surfaced other than a painful realization that he had no earthly idea how to respond and then—Dash saved him, dipping in and covering his gape with a short, silencing kiss and he sagged with relief. "So," said Dash when he pulled back, "where's this starry thing we're supposed to be observing?"

Never more ready to accept a change of subject, Tucker raised his eyebrows. "Well," he began, taking on a matter-of-fact air, "the stars…" He glanced up, "are where they usually are…" Dash nudged his shoulder, pushing just enough to mess with his balance, and Tucker snickered, stepping out and shooing the hands off. "Specific constellations, though," he continued, "I guess we'll have to see what we can pick out…"

So they did. And for a while, Dash even put up with listening to actual information about the stars and seasonal rotations of the constellations. Gradually though, the topic shifted, as did their positions, and roughly a half hour later, Tucker lay completely back, folded hands beneath his head the only pillow between he and the grass, Dash only a short distance from his side, propped up on his elbows. As his eyes absently traced dot-to-dot patterns between the stars, he let his mind wander. He wondered how serious Dash could possibly be, whether it was safe to 'like' him—and if it was possible not to. Finally, freeing one hand from behind his head, Tucker plucked a strand of grass.

"So…how long has it been?" he asked, breaking an easy silence.

Beside him, the grass rustled with Dash's movement, and a quiet, "Hm?" reached his ear. "Since what?" replied Dash.

"Since…_this_…" said Tucker, waving his grass-bearing hand vaguely, indicating nothing in particular. "This…me and you, kissing and touching and messing around in dark theatres and empty locker rooms, libraries, and physics classrooms…thing…"

"Oh, that…" A moment of silence. "Couple weeks?" Dash guessed.

Tucker mentally tagged Orion's belt, then proceeded to seek out the rest of the constellation. "And what do you know about me?"

Another short pause. "That you have a crappy romantic history?" Tucker grabbed another few grass strands and threw them at him. "Ok, ok," Dash surrendered, propping a hand up for a makeshift shield, but grinning nonetheless.

"I'm bein' half serious here," Tucker insisted, stealing a new victim piece of wildlife. "You really don't know much, do you?"

"I…guess not…" And there was a mumble that sounded something like 'I know what your kiss tastes like…' but it was so quiet, Tucker barely heard and decided to let it pass unchallenged.

"And what do I know about you?" he pressed.

"That…my favorite color is blue," said Dash.

"Exactly," said Tucker, "so-"

"And that I drink diet coke over regular, and play football," continued Dash turning his head and meeting Tucker's surprised gaze, "and that I _can_ be taught…if the methods are right…" He moved from elbows to palms, sitting up some, "and that I drive a Porsche and listen to rock, metal, and country…and only go to church on Christmas and Easter and whenever my grandparents come to visit…I also almost failed P.E. in third grade because of a bully who scared the shit out of me in that class and I would skip and hide in the cafeteria…and my favorite flavor of ice cream is strawberry and I like swimming, ice-skating and rock climbing, and bubble baths, and long walks on the beach…and as of recently…I have this strange attraction to a particular pair of green eyes, even though I never thought I'd be turned on by anything behind a set of glasses…"

Tucker blinked, staring, momentarily struck speechless. Eventually, he said, "Well I _didn't_ know at least half of that…"

"But you do now," said Dash, "and…I also know you can pack down candy like a ten-year-old at Halloween…and you bite your lip when you're thinking hard."

Tucker took a moment to consider, then smiled wryly. "Ok…my favorite ice cream is vanilla…but only with crumpled up real Oreos sprinkled on top, and I drink coffee with chocolate milk, not cream or regular…I listen to jazz, rock, alternative, and techno…and sometimes dance or pop when I'm running. My favorite color is purple, I've never been rock climbing and I can't ice-skate, but I can hold a hand stand for over a minute…and hack the school's hard-drive given the time and incentive…" He drew a lingering glance over Dash, now watching him intently, then shut his eyes, "…and I've also kina made this deal with myself…where I know my limits and don't pine for stuff I can't have…"

"…you know purple is like the universal color of gay, right?" said Dash. "And…you don't seem like the pining type…"

Tucker opened an eye. "Purple is a _royal_ color…and you'd be surprised."

"Hnph…I could teach you," Dash offered after a break, "…to ice-skate, that is," and Tucker turned his head, curious.

"For real?"

Dash raised his eyebrows, "Naw, for jokes," he teased. "Yeah, sure. Whenever you like…soon as the lake freezes over, if want."

Tucker tilted his head, eying the jock meaningfully. Then, finally, he broke into a grin. "Ok, cool…I'd like that."

And another easy silence fell between them, broken only when Dash ventured curiously with, "……so…how blind are you, anyway?" and Tucker raised an eyebrow. Then, after a moment's consideration, he shrugged and raised a hand to his face, blinking as he slipped off his glasses and then holding them out.

"See for yourself," he offered.

Dash's exact expression was lost to him, most of the world consumed in a sort of dark, mottled blur, but after a short period the glasses left his hands and moments later Dash's outburst of "Holy shit, you _are_ blind!" and a good-natured laugh met his ears, and Tucker huffed in Dash's general direction.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he conceded, holding out a hand and curling his fingers expectantly, "now give 'em back before you give yourself a headache…"

"Hnph…" uttered Dash thoughtfully. "Yeah?" he teased, "and what if I don't?" At that, Tucker's heart gave a half-panicked thud, and for the first time it occurred to him that perhaps he ought to have considered that possibility more carefully beforehand. In retrospect, thoughtlessly trusting his eyesight to a proven bully stereotype might not have been the wisest of moves.

Thus, his warning of, "Dash…" came out significantly thinner than intended, but Dash paid him no mind anyway. Instead, the grass rustled beside him, and Tucker blinked in vain, sitting halfway up and struggling without success to focus in on the fuzzy, generally football-player-shaped outline as colors shifted around. Then, he barely stifled a startled, undignified sound when Dash's weight settled suddenly on his midsection, effectively straddling him.

"You know…I pretty much have you at my mercy like this…" taunted Dash, and, well, that concept _definitely_ wasn't helping Tucker's heart-rate problem. He swallowed thickly.

"No, wait, that's not…" '_Fair_,' teased the edge of his lips, but never quite made it out, interrupted instead by Dash's voice, close now, and hot.

"Don't worry," Dash consoled, the words some impossible combination of soothing and exhilarating, "I won't break 'em…" and Tucker worked hard not to squirm, their close proximity—as well as the whole general concept of being pinned down and helpless—giving rise to yet another rapidly developing problem, this one centered in the front of his pants. He was not about to dig too deeply into the implications of the second set of reasoning. "Besides…you're really cute like this."

"I…oh…" _Cute when I'm terrified; where have I heard that before?_ Tucker's eyes flicked shut, partially because the constant effort of trying to focus was giving him a headache, and partially because—he swallowed a grunt as Dash shifted his weight, adding a distracting scrape of friction between their jeans right _there_, and the air temperature changed when Dash dipped his head, humid and clingy against his lips as their breaths mingled—dulling one sense really did magnify the others. "Dash, would you just…give me…"

"Say please," murmured Dash, and Tucker shivered.

"Asshole," was the last coherent comment he got in before Dash finally closed the distance.

Clumsy at first and almost rough—Tucker put up more of a fight than usual, catching at Dash's intruding tongue with his teeth, and then suckling, swallowing Dash's groan with the kiss. Then their tongues proceeded to twine openly and kissing rapidly degenerated into a sort of messy, unmediated free-for-all to see who could reach the other's tonsils the fastest. Unfortunately, a rather clumsy attempt at utilizing this time to locate Dash's hands and, perhaps, his glasses, did not go unnoticed, and moments later resulted in a swift movement which secured both Tucker's wrists neatly above his head and trapped them to the grass. He whined fittingly.

"_Ass_hole," he repeated, though this time with a slightly different air, and Dash grinned like a cat catching prey _right_ before the mouse hole.

"Ready to say please?" he asked.

"You think that," growled Tucker about a half second before realizing the full span of possible consequences for issuing such a challenge, and Dash's chuckle reverberated against his cheek.

"Alright," he purred in answer, "but don't say you didn't ask for it…" and Tucker meant to reply—really, but then there was something that felt a heck of a lot like Dash's _tongue_ in his _ear_, sweeping up the shell of it and then curling and dipping in and—_ohfuckyes_, that should _not_ have been that hot—Tucker arched in spite of himself, biting hard on a whine, and it seemed Dash was definitely getting bolder with the whole touchy-feely between two males thing because as soon he lifted up, Dash slid his spare hand down, catching his ass and gripping, holding him in place as he ground their hips, and there would be no denying what _that_ was as denim scraped and rubbed and—fuck, who the hell ever invented clothes anyway?

Tucker clenched his bound hands, swallowing his pulse like trying to shove a hummingbird down his throat, and then, "Ohshit_cold_," he hissed when Dash's fingers moved back up again—when had he taken his gloves off?—pushing at the edge of his shirt, skirting his stomach and sending goosebumps tickling up his flesh, damp grass brushing his bare back where the clothes moved away. "Dash…"

"Hn?"

"I want…" He squirmed, rocking his hips and—_damn_, that friction felt good—tugging at his wrists because he wanted _his_ hands in _Dash's_ clothes too and this was so un_fair_, but then—then Dash said something, soft against the curve of his neck, and Tucker's world stopped on a dime.

For two sharp, staggered heartbeats, he heard nothing—nothing but the rush of blood in his ears and the pound of his pulse between his temples. Then, failing miserably to steady his tremulous voice, Tucker asked, "You…what?" though he was pretty positive he'd heard perfectly the first time. Dash lifted his head.

"I said," he repeated slowly, "let me…fuck you," and Tucker's breath left him in a broken rush.

Sometimes, reality had a nasty habit of walloping its victims over the head at the most inopportune moments—and none too gently, either. Right then, it hit Tucker like a de-railed freight train. _He thinks you've done this before._

"We've been screwing around for weeks, but that's all it's been…screwing around…" One of the hands holding his captive shifted its grip, a single calloused thumb scraping over his sensitive inner wrist, and Tucker's eyes shut tighter as his fingers twitched, clenching again under the ministrations and digging into his palms. "Nothing more than grinding off is driving me insane…_you're_ driving me insane…"

"But this is…public," he contended weakly, most of his focus on breathing, "…and…"

"It's dark…and it's not like anyone's coming to look for us," said Dash. _Which in no way means no one could_, Tucker thought, but a flick of tongue on his neck and another less-than-subtle rolling of hips made counterarguments weak to say the least. "Besides…we could stop if we needed to…" Also far from a safe bet, "…and you want it too…"

"I…oh f-fuck," Tucker panted. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Did_ he want this? 'Zhwip,' said his zipper as Dash's hand freed him from the confines of way too much tight denim and, oh _fuck_, did he want this.

He wanted Dash to ram him till he really _was_ blind, till his throat was hoarse and raw and he couldn't tell up from down, till he wouldn't be able to walk straight for _days_ afterwards—but not like this. Not for the first time in the grass, in the open, on a cold night with a boy who wouldn't even admit to being gay; not when they weren't even _dating_ and Dash had just finished pulling his dick out of Paulina barely a week ago—no. Not like this.

He shook his head, the words "no," "wait," and "stop," all lingering long on his lips before he finally managed to force one out—though he couldn't be quite sure which—and if Dash had missed it, or chosen to ignore it, Tucker might never have been able to manage another, but, it seemed fate was with him that night, because despite its faint, fragile quality, laced with uncertainty, Dash halted immediately.

"You okay?" he asked. The genuine concern did wonders for Tucker's nerves.

"I…yes," he said. "I mean no! No…umm…" He swallowed. "That is…I'm fine…physically…sort of…it's just…" He frowned. "What I meant to say was we can't…that is, I can't…do this…here…now…yet."

After blinking furiously and failing again to focus, Tucker shut his eyes once more, waiting for the assurances, the yes-you-cans, the carefully placed touches and soothing words concocted specifically to break his resolve. But, they never came. Instead, there was a pause. Then, Dash shuffled, and before it became clear exactly what he was doing—glasses slid back, carefully, into place on Tucker's face, and he blinked, startled, into a pair of beautiful blue eyes examining him with an intensity that, if he had not already been utterly flustered beyond repair, might have made him blush.

Then, Dash asked, "Why not?" and for one fleeting moment, Tucker couldn't come up with anything.

There was moonlight catching in Dash's hair, and Tucker's cock, still very interested in _not stopping now_, pointed out that he really was exceptionally attractive, and his heart, still racing in his chest, pointed out that he didn't have such a bad personality either, and his mind, still very susceptible to the dangerously persuasive voices of both his sex drive and his teenage emotions, pointed out in an almost-sensible sounding voice that a quick rut in the grass might not be so bad after all since it _was_ Dash, and though he wasn't quite ready to admit it out loud maybe Dash really wasn't _that_ bad, and there was certainly no doubt it would _feel_ good, and be great practice, and-

Tucker shook his head sharply, snuffing out the false reasoning with a frown and pushing up his glasses with as much stubborn determination to draw on intellect as opposed to instinct as could be expected of a half-naked, horny teenage male. Understandably, his first argument was rather weak.

"I…uh…forgot condoms."

Dash stared. "You forgot…condoms."

"Yeah."

"You won't have sex with me…because you forgot condoms?" Dash asked, apparently having a little trouble with the concept, and, okay, so maybe Tucker didn't entirely blame him.

"Err…yes?"

Dash shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them, took Tucker's hand between two of his and said in the sincerest manner Tucker had ever witnessed, "Tucker, baby, if you get pregnant, I swear to God, I will pay every penny of child support, change every crappy diaper…hell, I will _marry_ you-"

"Dash!"

"What?"

"That's…" Tucker blushed. "Okay, fine…so maybe condoms aren't entirely necessary," he admitted, "but…we don't have any lube either! And…I…" He stalled, took a breath, and then, "Because I'm kina…sorta…still actually, umm…_Imstillavirginalright_?" came out in such a fumbled rush, he didn't blame Dash for his stare.

"You're…what?" said Dash, and then, slowly, realization dawned, and his eyes widened. "Oh! You're…really??" Tucker narrowed his eyes warningly.

"Naw, for jokes," he snapped.

"I thought…it was just…you……_oh_…" Dash took a moment to consider, expressive features wrought with thought for a moment until, quite suddenly, he burst out with "Well then why didn't you just _say_ so??" and Tucker's eyebrows twitched upwards.

"What, you didn't think I'd let _Danny_ fuck me, did you?" he asked, and Dash frowned.

"I…uh…iono…maybe…? I never really…thought about it?"

Tucker snorted. "Yeah, no…Danny tops a guy in bed the day I wear a skirt..." At the look on Dash's face, Tucker quickly added, "which is _never_, by the way…just in case there was any doubt…"

"Oh," Did Dash look—disappointed? "are you-"

"_Ever_," stressed Tucker, "with emphasis on the _no_," and Dash huffed. "_What_?" said Tucker. "When was the last time you saw a black guy cross-dress anyway?"

"…last time I went to New Orleans…?"

Tucker opened his mouth—then gave up. "You know what…nevermind. I…" He paused, a thought occurring to him. "This is really off topic…"

"Yeah, kina," agreed Dash.

"So, um…what…exactly…"

"Well…obviously we're not going to fuck," said Dash, as if going through a mental checklist and scratching off options. Apparently, something showed in Tucker's expression, because as soon as he opened his mouth Dash put a finger to his lips, adding, "Which is totally ok, by the way…" and Tucker relaxed slightly.

"Ok, right," he said, "obviously not that…"

"_But_," continued Dash, bringing their foreheads lightly together—and Tucker worked hard not to snicker when their noses bumped, "that still leaves us with a whole lot of _other_ options, which can also be a lot of fun…"

"Uh, yeah…definitely," seconded Tucker, wriggling slightly because the lower half of his body hadn't exactly forgotten what they _had_ been doing no so very long ago, and when he ran his finger experimentally over the front of Dash's jeans, he found Dash's body apparently hadn't forgotten either, and Dash's first, distracted grunt of approval sank into another kiss.

Then, things moved fast.

Tucker's fingers rapidly lost grace as he tried to simultaneously work Dash's jeans open and not—_shit_—embarrass himself by coming the instant Dash shoved his boxers down and around his hips, gripping and—oh, fuck if that didn't feel amazing—this, he thought distractedly, he could _totally_ get used to. Between their open mouths, their tongues slipped and slid as if oxygen were _so_ last year, and then finally, _finally_ Tucker managed to work through Dash's belt, and snap, and zipper, and get his pants and boxers out of the way enough to start returning the favor. The instant of his success, Dash's heady moan vibrated into his mouth, sending heated sparks pooling to Tucker's gut and—yeah, there was no way this was going to last very long.

Dash made up for lack of finesse with lack of hesitancy, but frankly, as far as Tucker was concerned there was a _hand_ on his _cock_—other than his own—and that pretty much felt helluvah good, period. Then of course there was the thing where if he twisted his own wrist just so or teased by slowing his pace barely a fraction, he was immediately rewarded with the most delectable _sounds_, and while he had never thought too deeply about the benefits of audible vs. not-so-audible partners, Dash's chopped gasps and startled groans certainly made the concept of drawing things out verge on impossible.

Sure enough, all too soon their 'kissing' started degenerating into something that might have been more accurately termed 'panting into each other's mouths,' and keeping up a regular pace dipped to a lesser priority, second only to _not stopping_. Then, Dash slid one knee slightly further out, sinking his body just enough so that in the next jerk their erections bumped, sliding in unison and—

"Oh shit," Tucker panted, "I'm going to-"

And apparently that was all Dash needed, because in that moment his whole body tensed, twitching sharply and then shuddering as he came in Tucker's hand, and Tucker gave a soft, answering whimper, following up a half second later with his own release.

Ok, so orgasms fucking rocked. Period.

For a while, they lay just like that—Dash on top of Tucker, both boneless and winded, neither motivated enough to move. Then, eventually, Dash uttered a quiet grunt and pushed himself over, rolling and tugging until their positions reversed, and when they settled again, Tucker's head to Dash's chest and eyes shut, finding lazy solace in the slow, gradual steadying of Dash's heartbeat, he pointedly decided _not_ to wonder whether such actions might possibly be considered cuddling.

"You know," mumbled Tucker after a long, comfortable silence, "if we actually plan on fucking…we might want to consider working on our stamina…" Below him, Dash grunted.

"Man…shut up," he grumbled good-naturedly, "that was fucking _hot_…" and Tucker snickered.

"Yeah, ok," he admitted, "it was."

And thus commenced another, blissful silence until—his PDA chirped.

"_Fuck_," Tucker groaned. "Not now…" And again. "Who the hell…?" he grumbled, sitting up and shifting off as he balanced putting himself back together and digging for his PDA at the same time.

"At least it waited till we were through?" Dash suggested helpfully, not sitting up but offering Tucker some tissues from his jacket pocket anyway, and Tucker accepted with a snort.

"Oh yeah…I'm bursting with gratitude," he muttered, padding over the worst stains with the tissues and—his hands froze instantly when he caught sight of the text.

The small glowing screen read: _ghosts … sam hurt, come_, and after that, just: _hurry_. Tucker swore.

Dash raised an eyebrow.

"I…" Tucker shook his head, "Shit, I gotta go. I'm sorry," he apologized, stuffing the gadget back in his pocket before quickly finishing up with his pants and getting to his feet. Below, Dash sat up, looking puzzled.

"Who was it," he asked, "your mom?"

"No, it's Dan-" A half second too late, Tucker realized exactly how that sounded, and fumbled, "I mean…it uh…" Too late. Dash, looking rightly confused, stood slowly, and Tucker swallowed, mentally kicking himself for not just saying 'yes.' "I know it sounds weird," he said, sincerely wishing for better words, "and I really am sorry, but…I do have to go, like…now, and…I'll try to explain later, ok?"

Dash watched him, frowning, and Tucker wished—but it was no use. There simply wasn't a way to explain. "Ok," Dash said finally, "but-"

Tucker leaned up, silencing the last words with a quick kiss and a hasty, "Goodnight," before turning tail and running for his car.

Sometimes, hero work really sucked ass.

**A/N:** Haha. Ok, so who thinks _that's_ not gonna affect his love/sex life eventually? :P And second question: is it obvious that over a year passed between the time I finished the last chapter and the time I finished this one? (Because it's true; this is the first chapter I posted after my last BIG writer's block.)


	11. Bonding

**Chapter Eleven:**  
Bonding

"No, no, no, no," said Dash, "that's the _linebacker_. Offensive _linemen_ are like…" He searched for a suitable simile, "guard dogs, I guess. They keep people like Richie and I—Richie's running back—from getting killed. Kwan, see…he's a lineman. Marquis and Darnell…they're linebackers."

Over a month since the astronomy outing and Tucker had yet to provide an 'explanation' for either the first or the following times he suddenly 'had to go' immediately and without notice—but Dash hadn't pressed. Despite a now solid habit of kissing, fondling, and—if they had the time and relative privacy—jerking each other off, theirs was still a very delicate 'relationship' to say the least. They never touched in school, rarely spoke between classes, and Dash had even gotten fairly good at not staring constantly in physics—sort of. In the halls and at lunch, Tucker associated with Fenton and the goth chick and Dash with his own crowd. Technically, as far as anyone at school knew, he was still happily hooked up with Paulina and tutoring with Tucker was simply a necessary chore.

From the foot of his bed, Dash watched Tucker nudge his glasses up farther on his nose with a considerate frown, eyes on his textbook as he flipped a page. "Ah," he said, "so…is there anyone on the field who runs _away_ from the place where the large groups of sweaty Neanderthals are trying to dislocate each other's bones and such?"

Dash raised an eyebrow. They were in his room because, to appease the griping of his teammates, he had asked to move Tuesday and Thursday study sessions to a later hour in order to attend football practice in addition, and Tucker had agreed. Most days, he simply waited—working on his own homework or flipping out his laptop in the physics lab until Dash finished. Today, though, he had had some early incident and disappeared before school even let out, texting later to ask for a temporary new location. Since Dash's parents worked late pretty reliably every day of the week excluding Sunday, his house had been a prime choice—thus, the presence of Tucker's socked toes curling against his comforter as he nibbled his lower lip thoughtfully, engrossed in a problem—not that Dash was complaining.

"You make dislocated bones sound like a _bad_ thing…" said Dash, and the desired response—getting Tucker to look up from the text—was achieved. He sent over grin, and Tucker snorted. "Ok, ok," Dash conceded, "so, umm…the kicker maybe? But that's not really a 'position,' unless you have someone dedicated to that only…running back's are _supposed_ to avoid the main scuffle—tailbacks especially. Fullbacks block more, tailbacks get the ball, then run like hell…that's what you'd be."

"I see," said Tucker, "and this is if I were overtaken by some feverish delusion that I might actually want to step near a football field?"

Dash shrugged. "Never know. What's the thing …try everything once? Don't uh…"

"…knock it till you try it?" suggested Tucker. "Yeah, totally. That's the exact same thing I told Danny the first time we…err…" As if realizing the direction of that sentence a little too late, Tucker suddenly regained an acute interest in his textbook. "Well, anyway, what problem did you say you were on?"

Dash opened his mouth—_almost_ asked—and then, at the last second, decided he really didn't want to talk about Fenton either, and answered, "Number two," instead. Tucker shot him a look. "What?"

"Number _two_? Seriously?"

"_What_?" returned Dash defensively, "they're…" Ok, so maybe the problems weren't really that long—or hard—or, well, anything else but, it was just hard to _concentrate_ when Tucker was concentrating, not only the lip nibbling and the toe curling, but then every now and then he would pop the end of his pen between his lips and then slide it back out and roll it and—well that was just plain _torture_. "You kept…wiggling," Dash finished lamely.

Across the bed, Tucker's abject disbelief softened to a sort of mild, cocky amusement, and suddenly Dash wanted to crawl across the bed, shove that damn textbook out of the way and—

"I see…and this…'wiggling'…rendered you completely incapable of functioning in any sort of scholarly sense?"

"Uh…" Dash blinked, pulling himself back to the reality of homework and tutoring, and—incapable of scholarly function?—sure, that sounded good, "yeah?" he said.

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Ok, look how's this…get to problem ten…and then we can take a short intermission, ok?"

"Inter…that's a break, right?"

Tucker stared.

Yeah, Dash was definitely going to extract his revenge for those looks—soon. It wasn't _his_ fault normal people didn't use words like 'intermission' and 'epito…whatever-the-hell-that-word-was' on a daily basis. For the moment though, he consented to getting back to work. Five minutes later, he nudged Tucker's toe.

"Hey, what'd you get for number three?"

Tucker dropped his head back against the headboard. "If you want me to _explain_-"

"Yes, ok, ok, could you 'explain' number-"

"Of course, I'd be happy to," said Tucker, shutting his book and prepping to move, but Dash waved him to a halt.

"No, don't, just…stay there," he said, stuffing his own work inside his textbook and closing it up, "I'll move," and Tucker watched, but said nothing as he moved up and then sat down, arranging the pillows more to his liking at his back before settling and reopening his text.

After a moment, Tucker shrugged. "Alright, well, the thing to pay attention to with number three is…" And so it went.

By problem seven, they sat not only side by side, but shoulder to shoulder, the textbook spread between them, and it occurred to Dash that if someone had suggested two months ago that he would find himself in his room, on his bed, hunched over a textbook with Tucker Foley curled at his side as they worked together through physics homework—well, he probably would have laughed his ass off—or knocked their lights out—depending on his mood at the time. Given his general temperament, probably the latter. And yet…

Tucker was saying something about energy transfer and relative heat capacity, but Dash was watching the tap of Tucker's pen to full, brown lips, and when he leaned in, stopping just short of Tucker's ear and blowing a short, teasing puff of air along the back, Tucker's explanation came to a teetering halt.

Triumphant, Dash grinned. Emboldened, he leaned in a fraction further, barely brushing his lips up, following the outer edge to the tip, and zeroing in on the soft hitch of Tucker's breath, the subtle shift of his posture.

"Dash…" Tucker warned.

"Yeah?" he replied in faux-innocence, hooking a thumb under the hem of Tucker's tee as he spoke and tracing a slow crescent over the warm skin underneath.

"We're not…" Tucker tapped the book distractedly. "Problem ten, remember? We're supposed to be…concentrating."

"Mm…but I am," said Dash, shifting his hand and sliding more fingers under, feeling the muscles of Tucker's stomach twitch and tense at the unexpected touch, "_you_ were the one who stopped talking…"

"I…" Tucker's objection was sharp, but short-lived. To be fair, even amongst the most well-minded of individuals, intellect rarely fared well against instinct, and when 'instinct' meant 'the raging hormones of seventeen-year-old males in their prime'—intellect ran for the hills with a will and a white flag. That said, by the time the textbook hit the floor, the thud of its descent was all but completely ignored, Tucker's fist already catching in Dash's shirt and tugging, urging him over, and Dash happily obliging, planting one knee on either side of Tucker's hips and dipping down, covering one eager mouth with another. Tucker's hands slid into his clothes as boldly as his slid into Tucker's, hiking up troublesome shirt material and urging their hips closer, all in all, an entirely favorable situation—at least, until one touch drew a sharp hiss decidedly _not_ pleasurable, and Dash froze immediately.

"Tucker-"

"It's nothing," Tucker assured a little too quickly, though his expression still retained signs of a wince that didn't look like 'nothing' at all—quite the opposite. "Don't worry about it, just…don't touch me there," he said, and Dash frowned, because 'there' was nowhere special, just a middle area on Tucker's side, towards his back in the general area of his left rib, and it _shouldn't_ have made him wince. He sat up, making Tucker scowl. "I _told_ you," Tucker insisted, "it's nothing important, just-" but Dash ignored him.

Scooting back slightly, he motioned Tucker to get up too with a curt command of "Up," and then, "Take your shirt off," and after some pause Tucker obeyed the first, but eyed him guardedly about the second.

"Why?" he asked, and Dash met his gaze squarely.

"Because I _said_ so, Foley," he asserted in his best no-arguments growl, "now just do it," and for a long moment, he thought Tucker might just snap back and refuse, but then, warily, he complied, lowering his hands to the hem of his shirt and carefully lifting. Dash watched closely as he did it, paying special attention to the exact way he moved his arms, avoiding accidentally bumping into certain areas and moving the cloth cautiously up and over. When he dropped the shirt at his side, Dash turned his attention to the real matter at stake—and swallowed a sharp, jabbing fury. Brown skin hid bruises well—but not _that_ well.

The one Dash had accidentally bumped was the most noticeable, following up Tucker's side and accompanied by a still-visible scrape higher up, but there were other ones too—smaller ones on his other side and one near his hip—and Tucker's skin was light enough that the roughest black and purple mars were impossible to hide, but dark enough that Dash could only guess how much he couldn't see. Suddenly, he wanted desperately to make someone _suffer_.

"It's really…not that bad," said Tucker, "I don't-"

"Who did this to you?" Dash growled, low, guttural, and—he hoped—threatening enough to let Tucker know he meant business. In front of him, green eyes widened with something akin to—surprise?

"It wasn't…I mean, _no_ one," said Tucker, sounding strikingly close to sincere—but Dash wasn't about to buy it.

"Oh yeah?" he challenged. "So what happened then, huh? It looks like someone _laid into_ you, Tucker…" He waited, and then, after no response, added leadingly, "If your parents-"

"No!" Tucker cut in with startling immediacy. "It wasn't…I mean, it's not…" He forced a slow breath, cheeks heating as he shook his head. "This has nothing to do with them," he assured, softer, and Dash frowned, lost.

Finally, he said, "Ok, so if it's not them, then…what…?"

"I…" Tucker hesitated, looked almost as if he planned to answer and then—very suddenly—grew sharply defensive, looking away and scowling. "What business is it of yours anyway, huh?" he snapped. "Maybe it was an accident, or I got into some fight at school, or-"

"This isn't the first time," interrupted Dash, perfectly sure of himself, and Tucker's eyes snapped up, momentarily surprised out of his anger.

"You noticed…before…? But…" He frowned—more puzzled than displeased, "you've never…" He dropped his eyes. "This is the first time you've said anything," he muttered.

"It took me a while to notice," Dash admitted, "and then even when I did, you were right…it wasn't exactly my business-"

"But it is now?" jabbed Tucker.

"-and it _could_ have been an accident," continued Dash, ignoring the interruption, "at least the first time…but then it didn't stop, and I started paying attention, and I might be dumb, but I'm not stupid, ok? The football team has enough assholes that I know the difference between this and falling down the stairs…"

Tucker winced tellingly. After a moment, he opened his mouth, as if to comment, but then simply frowned and shut it again.

"Also…this is worse than it's been before," said Dash when Tucker said nothing, "and yes…now I'm making it my business."

Tucker's frown was deep as he shut his eyes, worried and confused and—the anger was back. "_Why_ though?" he asked, his voice starting soft, almost desperate. "Why do you _care_?" he said, shaking his head and voice gaining strength with each question. "Why does it _matter_? Why do you _give_ a _fuck_ what the hell happens to me when I'm not…I don't know, jerking you off or whatever? I mean I didn't…I never _asked_ for you to give a shit, I never-"

"You didn't have to, it just-"

"But I didn't want-"

"That's not the poin-"

"Maybe that _is_ the point!" retaliated Tucker, almost shouting now. "You're not _supposed_-"

"But I DO! Ok?" shouted Dash, easily topping him. "I _give_ a fucking shit what happens to you! And I don't _care_ if you never asked for it or never wanted it or if it just happened or what_ever_ but I don't want people _touching_ you and…I…" Very suddenly, Dash realized he had no idea what, exactly, he had just admitted to—and to what extent—and he swallowed thickly, his heart thrumping hard and fast in his chest like he'd just run a marathon. He realized with sudden, sharp clarity that the idea of anyone else laying a _hand_ on Tucker—for hurt or for otherwise—made him want to snap necks and split skulls, and—he dropped his gaze, voice softening to something barely above a murmur as he grunted, "Nevermind…just…whatever. If you want to keep playing games with your fucking…abusive boyfriend…"

"He's _not_ my boyf-"

"So it _is_ Fen-"

"No!"

"Then why does he always call?" accused Dash. "Every other five minutes-"

"Paulina calls-"

"And I _ignore_ her!" insisted Dash, "I haven't answered her calls in weeks, I haven't been out with her, I haven't gotten _laid_…" and Dash knew, within a half second of having said it, that that was the _wrong_ thing to add at that time. Immediately, he stumbled to backtrack, "I mean…that's not to say-" but it was too late.

"Well, I am _so_ sorry that I don't put _out_ fast enough for you," Tucker snarled coldly, words dripping with sarcasm as he snatched for his shirt, backing out from under Dash's pin. "So how about this…I'll leave-"

"Tucker, wait-"

"You can call your girlfriend-"

"No, wait," fumbled Dash, "I didn't mean it like-"

"No, really, it's ok," insisted Tucker, shirking from Dash's touch when he reached out and slipping off the bed. "You go get laid. I'll just-"

"No, Tucker, it's not-"

"_What_?"

"I…" Dash swallowed, feeling suddenly small under Tucker's sharp, hurt glare, but he held it anyway. "I'm sorry…" he said eventually, softly, "really…ok? I didn't mean it like that. I don't care that we're not fucking, and I don't want to get laid by Paulina…or any other chick on the cheer squad…or even…well…" He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning as the realization dawned, "…anyone…really," he admitted, "…except I mean you…eventually…I hope, I guess…" and Tucker held his glare for perhaps another good three seconds—then, visibly, relented, shoulders sagging as he sighed and slumped back in a half-lean against the nearest counter, giving up on putting on his second shoe and dropping his eyes to the floor.

"Could have stopped at 'I'm sorry,'" he grumbled, but it was half-hearted, "and…it's alright…I mean…I know you didn't mean it like that…and…I'm sorry too, I'm just…frustrated…and angry…but it's not all your fault, and I shouldn't have taken it all out on you, it was just…you were a handy target…you know?"

And yes, Dash nodded, how could he possibly not know? After all the times he'd thrust his excess anger out on whichever unfortunate victim happened to be closest at the time…

"I wish I _could_ explain, I just…I can't. It's not my secret to tell…but you _are_ right…I'm not falling down the stairs…but it's not abuse, either. It's not my parents and it's not Danny, or any other boyfriend. I'm not dating Danny, and I don't have any other boyfriends…or…err…any boyfriend, that is…"

Dash raised his eyebrows at the foul up, allowing himself the faintest hint of a smirk and venturing a step forward. "Any other boyfriend?" he repeated, watching the soft spread of a dark blush rise in Tucker's cheeks as he approached. "Any boyfriend other than who?" he asked, shortening the distance between them to a scarce foot and catching a finger under Tucker's chin, preventing him from diverting his gaze.

"Other than…well…" Tucker swallowed, "…I mean…you, I guess…" he admitted, the last half terribly soft, barely audible—but Dash grinned anyway.

"Yeah?"

"I mean I know we're not…I didn't mean-"

"So, would you be my boyfriend?" Dash asked, "If I asked you out?" and Tucker, for his part, stared.

"Uh…I don't…I'm not sure, are you…_are_ you asking me out?" he asked, and Dash shrugged.

"I don't know," he said, "maybe…" and Tucker rolled his eyes.

"Ok, then," he snarked, folding his arms with a coy grin, "how's this: I don't know…maybe I would," and Dash groaned, dropping their foreheads together. Tucker snickered. "Ok, ok, _but_," He held up a finger, "_if_ I were going to date you…there would have to be some conditions…"

"Oh, yeah?" said Dash, "Like what?"

"Like, hmm…you'd have to be single…first of all," said Tucker, "and then, let's see…you'd have to actually, you know, _like guys_…? Other than that…well…I guess the other things you can't really help so…that's probably it."

Dash raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh…ok, well…as it turns out, there _is_ actually this one guy I like…"

"Really?" replied Tucker with mock surprise, "Do tell…"

"Well, he can be a pain in the ass sometimes…and he's hard as hell to shut up…but he is pretty cute…or…kina more adorable-hot really, and…his sense of humor kina makes up for the hard as hell to shut up part most of the time…"

"I see…and what's his name?" asked Tucker. "Sounds like maybe you should ask _him_ out…"

Dash snorted. "Tucker-"

"Yeah?"

"No," Dash bumped their noses and leaned down, half an inch from a kiss, "that's his name…Tucker," and Tucker's lips curved into a soft "Oh," moments before they disappeared under Dash's own.

"For the record," Tucker murmured when they parted, "I kina like you too…" and Dash didn't know where Tucker went or why, or what happened to him when he did—but he knew Tucker _liked_ him, and he was happier than he could remember being in a long, long time.


	12. Reaction

**WARNING: **This chapter is rated M. That is all.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve:**  
Reaction

_BANG._

Every head in the room turned, a hushed silence falling over the classroom, and Tucker swallowed, suddenly wishing for nothing more than to retreat slowly back out and disappear. He hadn't meant to make quite so much of an entrance. At the head of the classroom, the professor looked nonchalant.

"So nice of you to join us, Mr. Foley. By all means, take a seat—you'll have to join a group, as we've already started. I trust your belated appearance is justified?"

"I, uh…" Tucker scanned the room, simultaneously looking for a possible seating arrangement and trying to gulp down enough oxygen to satisfy his starving lungs without being too obvious about it—at least, he consoled himself, it had _looked_ like Danny had things under control last he saw.

Everyone was sat around black lab tables—of course, Monday, lab day—and vials of one sort and another littered the workplaces. Some students already had Bunsen burners lit up, others were fiddling with wire filaments or already scribbling notes. Mid-sweep, Dash caught his eye, nodding to an empty seat at his left, and Tucker relaxed slightly. Mission find group: complete.

"Mr. Foley?" The teacher called his attention back to the front of the classroom.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, right," said Tucker, shoving a hand in his pocket and fumbling a moment before producing a small pink slip. "Here," He placed the paper on the front desk, "sorry, car had issues on the way to school," he lied.

After almost four years of sporadic disappearances from classes—ghosts, unfortunately, worked completely on their own schedules—he had developed a necessary knack for forged tardy slips, doctor's excuses, and the like, and as long as things didn't get excessive, it all slipped nicely under the radar. At the teacher's nod of acceptance, he moved off, joining Dash—and Kwan, it seemed—at their lab station.

"What took you, Foley?" Dash asked when he arrived. "You look like you ran a marathon to get here and still wound up late. Forget the way to school?" He barbed the words with all his usual school bully snipe, but his eyes told a different story, first darting over Tucker's figure, searching for any obvious signs of damage, then meeting Tucker's eyes, concerned and questioning. The unspoken '_Are you okay?'_ was impossible to miss.

Tucker gave a '_No big deal'_ shrug and ignored the just-for-appearances jab, turning his attention instead to the array of items on their table. After a moment, he frowned and squinted up to the board, slipping off his backpack and digging around for his notebook as he tried to make out the assignment. "So…what, exactly, are we doing today, anyway?" he asked, and Kwan looked up from holding a thin flake of something suspended on wire gauze over the Bunsen burner.

"We're looking at the reactions of calcium and calcium compounds first…then bismuth compounds. We'll have to mix some bismuth nitrate with anhy…an…er…some kind of sodium carbonate…"

"Anhydrous?" Tucker asked.

"Yeah, right, that…and heat it on that charcoal block thing once we get through with this…if it ever…does…anything…" Kwan frowned at the lack of reaction so far and lowered the gauze slightly, bringing the flake of whatever it was closer to the flame. "Both the experiments are in the lab manu—ah!" His explanation stopped abruptly as the flake of—calcium, Tucker presumed as he pulled out said lab manual and glanced over the experiment—burst into brilliant red flame in the middle of the gauze. After it burned out Kwan pulled it back and blinked at the powdery white residue. "Calcium oxide…huh."

Dash eyed the powder, then glanced to Tucker's lab manual. "Yeaahh…I'll go with whatever he said…looks like condensed milk to me. That, or dried…err…" Tucker raised an eyebrow and Dash snickered, leaning back on his stool and tactfully leaving the remainder of the sentence to the imagination. Either Kwan missed the exchange, or decided not to comment. Tucker shook his head and began gather materials for the second experiment as Kwan jotted down notes for the first.

From there, things went surprisingly smoothly. Well, aside from the fact that Dash seemed intent on seeing how much _exactly_ he could get away with without Kwan or the rest of the classroom pulling odd looks, his stunts including, but not limited to: moving up _significantly_ closer than need be when copying down Tucker's notes—leaning over his shoulder and letting his breath tickle at the side of Tucker's neck as he did so—reaching for the same tools or ingredients on multiple occasions—and letting their fingers linger together several moments longer than absolutely necessary—and, in one particularly daring instance, pinching Tucker's ass—and nearly causing a literally explosive reaction when Tucker barely managed not to squeak and still nearly dropped his filled vial into a solution it would _not_ have played well with. Needless to say, when it came to heating the nitrate and carbonate with a mouth blowpipe, Tucker quickly stepped up to the plate.

Revenge, Tucker thought as he caught Dash's widening eyes and curled his lips a little too slowly over the tip of the pipe, had never been quite so sweet—and Dash's cheeks really looked lovely a nice, rosy shade of pink. Of course, paying attention to getting the job done was important too—but that didn't stop Tucker from adjusting his mouth very slightly partway through, taking the pipe in a half inch further and watching Dash's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and shifted in his chair, folding his hands none-too-discreetly in his lap with a tiny warning glare for Tucker's eyes alone. Tucker gave only a small satisfied smirk before pulling back—unforgivably slowly—to examine the results.

Completely unawares, Kwan eyed the outcome with a critical eye, pen to the pad. "Ok, so the pink blob glob thing in the middle is…the regular bismuth."

"Yeah," confirmed Tucker, expending great efforts to maintain a straight face as Dash prudently relocated his notebook from the tabletop to more strategic post in his lap, "and the brown surrounding layer is bismuth oxide or Bi2O3."

Kwan scribbled. "Sweet, ok…and the book says…that stuff is like, used in medicine? Like a cream?"

"Err…yeah, it's umm…" Tucker cleared his throat, "often used as a…suppository cream."

Kwan grimaced; Dash looked confused.

"A sipazzo-what?"

Tucker glanced up. "A suppository is a form of medication designed to be administered through the rectum, vagina, or urethra. In other words," he continued at Dash's puzzled frown, "cream that goes up your ass."

"Oh," replied Dash, his voice suddenly very small.

Tucker chuckled softly. "Ok, so now…we pass hydrogen sulfide into the bismuth nitrate solution, which should be acidified with dilute hydrochloric aci—"

"IEEK!"

A shrill, piercing screech came simultaneously paired with a detonating BOOM directly to their left, and almost before he could jump Tucker felt himself being spun, back hitting a hard chest as some unidentifiable substance sprayed three hundred and sixty degrees behind him.

Like popping off a firecracker in an anthill, the entire classroom burst into commotion—so much so that there probably weren't very many who happened to notice that at the instant of the explosion Dash had not only jumped and shielded, but caught, turned, and was now holding Tucker solidly to his chest. In fact, it even took Tucker until after his pulse began slowly recovering from his explosion-induced near-heart-attack before he picked up on the fact.

All around, cries of "What _was_ that?" and "Cool!" joined such creative snaps as "You _idiot_!" and "I said the _green_ stuff, not the blue thing…" but in his own personal sphere, Tucker's world had shrunken down significantly, his concept of reality contracting to include little more than the whisper of breath at his cheek and the wall of chest at his back, and he swallowed. Tilting his head back, his questioning, "Dash?" came out barely above a whisper, and it seemed Dash hadn't quite processed the entirety of his actions either, because as soon as Tucker spoke, he glanced down, blinking in surprise as if noticing him for the first time.

"Uh…huh?" came Dash's brilliant reply.

Around them, firm, repeated orders of "Calm down!" and "Back to your stations…" started to take precedence over the calamity, and Tucker wriggled, trying to drop a hint that they were still in a _full_ classroom and _highly_ visible, but the attempt backfired, Dash's grip tightening with a startled groan as soon as he did because the movement just so happened to press Tucker's—erm—backside against—oh, riiight, he had forgotten about that.

"_Tucker_…" Dash hadn't forgotten.

"Umm…but, Dash…" Tucker began.

"_What?_" Dash hissed, the growl quiet but rumbling, and Tucker grit his teeth, feeling his own body respond all too rapidly and now was _not_ the time. '_Lancer, Lancer, think Lancer_,' Tucker chided himself. '_Lancer in a dress, Lancer in a pink dress, Lancer in lingerie—oh god-' _Tucker grimaced.

"Dash…" he managed a strained whisper, "people are…staring…" and by that point, it was true.

As the immediate commotion died down, some kids returned to their seats, others running off to get materials for clean-up duty or simply meandering about, but the steadier situation nonetheless left room for more observation and the head quarterback standing in the middle of the room with his arms around Tucker Foley was, well, worth observing to say the least. As that factor finally sunk in, Dash hastily removed his grip and took a step back, but obviously debated awkwardly between adding more space between and lingering slightly because, well, giving the classroom a full view of—_that_—probably wasn't the best idea either. Luckily, dropping his grip seemed to break the spell, and anyone who had taken a short pause to observe the oddity quickly appeared to dismiss it and go back to work—or, everyone that is, except Kwan.

All in all, the entire process couldn't have lasted much more than thirty seconds, but Kwan, Tucker reminded himself, had been right _there_ the entire time. As he watched, Kwan caught Dash's eye, tilting his head with an obvious what-the-hell-was-_that_ look, but Dash only answered with a no-nonsense glare and a none-of-your-damn-business shrug, and Kwan frowned, but held his tongue, at least for the moment.

The experiments were quick to finish after that, and they started the clean-up process with several minutes still on the clock before the bell.

"Dash," Kwan finally ventured to speak.

"What?" Dash grunted his reply, sloshing water through recently emptied vials, then draining the sink.

"Can we…talk? Like…after class or something?"

Tucker watched Dash scowl, but underneath the scowl was pure tension—and worry. "About what?" he snapped, covering his anxiety surprisingly well, but Kwan wasn't about to be shoved off that easily, and when Dash looked up, catching Kwan's gaze, he faltered, the you-know-_exactly_-what plain as day in the other's eyes. "I…umm…ok, fine, whatever," he relented warily, still scowling, "but not now. Later, and don't…" He trailed off, the worry coming forefront in his expression for the first time, and Kwan shook his head.

"Hey, relax, man…" he comforted, clapping a hand to Dash's shoulder and sprouting an open, easy smile. "You know you can trust me, right?" he said, and the entire exchange might have been taken for completely lighthearted but for a subtler, unspoken seriousness in his eyes, and Dash frowned, obviously not taken in by the surface image.

"I…yeah," he muttered, "I guess…" though he sounded less than convinced.

Kwan's smile never dipped. "Cool. So, I'll…talk to you later then, yeah?"

"Sure," Dash consented as the bell rang, the other students bursting into action around them almost as violently as they had after the explosion, and Dash's eyes followed Kwan out the door.

Apparently, Tucker noted as the rest of the masses filed out, contrary to his original assumption, more than just Kwan had noticed something—at least, if the stolen glances in their direction and the whispered mutterings that followed meant anything—and he frowned as Dash's foul mood seemed to darken with each one. By the time Dash finished shoving books in his bag, he looked like a time bomb, already teetering on the razor's edge of detonation and just _itching_ for the smallest excuse to take out anyone foolish enough to stand in the blast radius. Unsure of what to say, but feeling pressed to add _some_thing, Tucker shifted awkwardly.

"Dash-"

"Man, _shut_-" But Dash cut himself off early, gritting his teeth and forcing a slow breath. Eventually, he grunted a curt, "Sorry," low and rather unconvincing, but Tucker let it go, watching instead as Dash's fingers twitched and curled, clenching into fists, then letting out again.

Frustration painted his cheeks an angry red, leaving them flushed and glowing. It parted his lips and added a dark, dangerous spark to otherwise tranquil blue eyes, like a sliver of lightning through a clear, summer sky—and it made him tense. It strung up the muscles in his neck, arms, and jaw, and it altered his stance entirely, replacing a loose, confident athlete with a battle-ready cobra, crouched and wound tight for the strike. Thus, when Dash suddenly snorted and turned that sharp, predator's gaze directly on him, Tucker swallowed thickly.

Anger wasn't _supposed_ to be hot—was it? Then, Dash's eyes swept his figure in a quick, critical once over, eating in the details and then flicking his tongue over his lips and-

Okay, maybe it kind of was. At least on Dash.

"You hungry?"

The question snatched Tucker from his reverie, and he blinked, following Dash's example as he finally slung on his backpack and started heading for the door.

"Uhh, for…?" he asked.

Dash's grin looked more like a baring of teeth. "Oh, I don't know," he purred with coy sarcasm as they stepped into the hall, "…_lunch_, maybe?"

Oh, right, Tucker remembered, it _was_ lunch time. The hallway pulsed with its usual tide, hundreds of teenage bodies funneling towards the same single purpose—sustenance. Tucker avoided getting swept up immediately, asking "Why?" instead, projecting his voice just enough for Dash to hear over the bumbling roar of the crowd, "Did you have something else in mind?" and apparently, that was all the encouragement Dash needed. When a hand caught his wrist and tugged, Tucker followed without further comment.

They hugged the wall at first to avoid fighting the tide as much as possible, but, going against the grain, things thinned out pretty quickly, and soon, Tucker found himself lengthening his strides, almost jogging to keep up as Dash lead a winding march through abandoned hallways. Then, just as he opened his mouth to ask, Dash stopped abruptly, and Tucker skidded to avoid tumbling right into him. Only when Dash pulled out keys did Tucker notice the door, and he raised an eyebrow.

"Man, so you really are the gatekeeper, huh? Is this the part where you chain me up in your secret dungeon, break the lock and throw away the key?"

Dash, shoving a worn silver key into the lock, tossed him an odd look. "No chains," he said eventually, turning the bolt, "…but I think I'd rather _keep_ the key if there were." Before Tucker could even _begin_ to wrap his mind around all the possible implications behind that statement, the door opened and Dash dragged him in.

_Click_ was the door notching shut behind them, _thump_ the collision of Tucker's head and shoulders with said door when Dash shoved him up against it, and _clack_ the deadbolt falling back into place once more. The room was—Tucker blinked several times, just to make sure—definitely pitch black—assuming, of course, that the hit to the head had not actually finally managed to make him go totally blind for real—and he had about half a second to wonder if they were seriously in a _broom_ closet before Dash's lips crushed to his and-

Suddenly, he didn't care if they were on Mars.

"All," Dash growled, "your," He nipped, "fucking," Tucker's wrists hit the door, "_fault_…" and Tucker grunted, unable to formulate much more than that with Dash's kiss _eating_ at him, all teeth and tongue—rough, clumsy, and demanding. He felt the tension shake Dash's grip on his wrists, unforgivingly tight and almost painful—but bearable—trapping them hard against the door and scraping at sensitive skin, possibly leaving marks—but if letting Dash play rougher on this field saved someone a cracked skull later on, Tucker could deal. Not to mention, it wasn't as if his own pulse didn't take several staggering leaps and bounds when Dash's low growl sank into his open mouth, tongue barreling past his lips, curling behind his teeth, and then lapping at the roof of his mouth as if mapping territory.

"What's…my fault?" Tucker asked as soon as the opportunity arose, and Dash snorted, dipping his head and leaving trail-marking nips like breadcrumbs all along his chin, down his jaw line, and to his neck—some harsher than others.

"All…_period_," Dash flicked his tongue out, drawing a wet sweep along the juncture where jaw met throat, and Tucker's fingers curled into his palms, clenching, "you _teased_…" A sharper-than-normal bite emphasized the last word, eliciting a sharp, startled whimper that Tucker had _not_ intended make, and then, "…mouthing that _thing_ like you needed a cock in your mouth so bad, I…" Dash's mouth found a sweet spot mid-throat that made Tucker's knees shake and latched on, licking and nibbling and sucking, and—Tucker swallowed a whine—if Dash kept this up he was _definitely_ going to have to borrow his mother's make-up—that, or sport a hickey the size of Canada all week, "…couldn't think, wasn't _fair_…and…do you have any idea what will _happen_?" Dash continued, "If my team finds out I'm…" He stumbled on the possible finish to that sentence. "If they…" More than just Dash's grip shook now, his entire body trembling against Tucker's. "They'll never listen to me again…I won't be able to…_anything_…I…"

"Then don't let them find out," said Tucker, his voice significantly steadier than he felt. "One incident with a chem lab explosion isn't proof of anything…and besides, there weren't even that many people paying attention to _us_…most of their focus was on the detonating bits." He strategically opted to leave out that the two of them simultaneously failing to show up to lunch directly after the fact—followed by the random appearance of a dark hickey that he probably wouldn't be able to hide properly until after he got home—might very well give rise to some more definitive speculations, should anyone decide to put the pieces together. Dash didn't need any more on his head at the given moment. So he asked, "Is black the extent of our lighting options in here?" instead, more as a distraction technique than anything else.

One hand temporarily surrendered his wrist, fumbling along the wall, and a moment later, a dim, flakey yellow light twitched on. The source—a single, dirty, unmasked bulb—hung suspended from the ceiling on a thin, aging wire in the center of the room. It seemed to make more shadows than light, but, Tucker supposed, it was better than nothing, lighting up the entire space—about the size of a roomy walk-in closet—well enough to see, if nothing else.

"So we _are_ in a broom cupboard…" he observed.

"It's a storage room," Dash grumbled, snatching up his wrist again and pinning it for emphasis, "and what about Kwan, huh? _He_ saw…and he's-"

"-your best friend, isn't he?" said Tucker, raising an eyebrow. "I guess I wouldn't know…but do you really think he's going to exploit this as an opportunity to drag your reputation into the gutter and make your life hell?" At Dash's frown, he shrugged. "Didn't think so. Now…since we have _that_ settled…" Tucker dipped his gaze, drawing his lower lip thoughtfully between his teeth, "…what was it you said exactly about my needing a cock in my mouth?"

Dash's expression made taking the nerve to ask a thousand times worth it, and Tucker took advantage of the brief, stunned-speechless silence to slide to his knees. The soft, strangled whimper this dragged from Dash immediately sent an answering rush of blood pooling directly between his own legs, resulting in a swift, dizzying head rush, and Tucker swooned, finding his balance just in time to glance up and catch Dash swallow, cheeks already flush, breathing hitched, and tongue flicking out anxiously over dry, parted lips. When their eyes locked, he watched Dash open his mouth, hesitate a moment, and then close it shut again without a word, as if afraid that speech itself might break the spell. Tucker kept his smirk to himself.

After a moment's debate about whether or not to tug his still-pinned wrists from Dash's now rather lax, distracted grip, Tucker shrugged, leaving them in their place, and leaned forward.

Of course, there were a million ways to _mess up_ the process of removing clothes without the use of one's hands—most of which either awkward or embarrassing or both, and others borderline dangerous—a fact which Tucker held no illusions about. However, one could also argue that _any_ process involving teeth, genitals, and zippers was, by definition, borderline dangerous, and the fact remained that on this day, Tucker was feeling particularly—adventurous. Besides, it wasn't as if he'd _never_ tried it before, just—never with a particularly high success rate. And never from this angle.

When he nudged up the hem of Dash's shirt though, catching the first snap of his jeans with his teeth and releasing it with a satisfying pop, the bracelet-like nature of the grip on his wrists tightened sharply, eliminating any backing out options at once—not that Tucker planned on that now. Carefully, he maneuvered his lips to press back the cloth covering the actual zipper, moved in his tongue to slip under the metal zip and lift, and then caught it with his teeth. If not for his full mouth, Tucker might have let out a victory whoop—he settled for grinning like a cat with feathers in its teeth, and proceeded to tug down, stealing an upward glace as he did. Eyes closed, muscles tense, and hair loose about his face like a blonde halo, Dash, Tucker decided silently, looked delectable.

When he reached the base and came to a pause, Dash's eyes opened—needy, verging on desperate. "Tucker…"

"Hm?" Tucker ran his mouth back up Dash's clothed erection—nothing but thin boxer material left in the way now—and Dash keened, eyes shutting once more and fingers clenching into Tucker's wrists. "Magic word?" Tucker prompted, and Dash groaned.

"Fuck," He shuddered, "Tucker…_please_…" he begged, and Tucker didn't need to hear it twice.

One curt tug and Dash obligingly allowed Tucker a free hand to work him out of his boxers—more awkward than worth the effort to try hands-free—and Dash, Tucker realized, was amazingly expressive. Angry, happy, or aroused, it didn't matter—whatever he thought or felt jumped into his face like a window into his conscious and reflected back immediately in his body language, his facial expressions, everything about him. When Tucker flicked his tongue across the tip, Dash's spare hand fisted against the door, and when he encircled the head, another groan shook Dash to his shoes. As Tucker watched, Dash opened his mouth, eyes still shut, and almost spoke, but any intended comment he had died instantly under a garbled whine when Tucker took him all the way in.

It occurred to Tucker, as he curled his tongue like a hammock under his mouthful and drew slowly backwards, that trying to find out how much noise, exactly, he could extract out of Dash in one sitting was perhaps an experiment better left to a time and place where the risk of some poor, unassuming student or janitor happening by and catching an unwanted earful of their activities was significantly less, well, significant—but then he dropped back down and drew in his cheeks, and when Dash cursed beautifully, pressing his spare hand to his mouth and dropping his forehead to the door, Tucker decided that any poor soul foolish enough to wander about the abandoned hallways of a high school during lunch hour deserved whatever lesson in unscrupulous, behind-the-scenes teenage activities they had coming to them.

So, settling one hand on Dash's hip, Tucker took up a rhythm, paying special attention to what, precisely, made Dash's jaw tense, what made him gulp, and what made him whine. He took advantage of the free time frame to tease, suckling hard and then easing off a moment too soon in turns until Dash's progressively colorful cursing finally degenerated into the realm of the strictly unintelligible, but then, Dash's hand dropped from the door to behind his neck, catching at his nape and tangling in his braids, and Tucker made a soft sound of his own.

The added vibration brought instant results.

"Ah, f-fuck…" Dash's breath grew sharply ragged, grip tightening behind Tucker's neck, clinging, "Tucker…" and Tucker willed his throat to relax, eyes dipping shut as he focused on shaking off any hint of panic—he was _not_ going to choke—and taking Dash just a fraction deeper with each stroke. Dash's grip twitched in reaction. "S-shit, baby, yes…please…" he panted, "just like that…" and his clutching became almost a cupping, petting motion as his breathing picked up pace. Then his thumb brushed up the side of Tucker's jaw, and Tucker made it _almost_ to the base, and Dash keened, "Fuck, I'm going to…"

Tucker appreciated the warning—really—and Dash even made an admirable attempt at drawing back, but after taking all of half a second to weigh up his options—no trash, no tissue paper, and a long, awkward walk to the bathroom—he opted to ignore Dash's weak urging and caught his hip instead, holding him still and leaning forward. He glanced up just in time to catch a brief glimpse of startled, glassy blue eyes before Dash's cock tapped the back of his throat and Dash's eyes shut tight as he groaned and—quite suddenly all Tucker's concentration went into relaxing and swallowing and not taking anything down the wrong pipe.

All in all, Tucker decided—after Dash finally stopped shaking and he let him drop from his lips, leaning back and tilting his head up to observe the flushed, still-breathless figure above him—he thought he did a pretty good job.

"Still pissed?" he asked when it seemed Dash had the breath to answer, and after a long pause, Dash opened one eye.

"I was pissed?" he asked, sounding drowsy and lazy and totally sincere.

Tucker snickered. "I'll take that as a 'no,'" he concluded, but when he moved to stand, Dash waved him off. After making quick work of pulling up his pants and restoring his zip to the upright and locked position, he dropped down instead, placing one knee on either side of Tucker's and leaning in—but about a half inch before a kiss he hesitated, as if coming to a realization, and Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Yes," he said, "if you kiss me now I'm afraid it will taste like-" but he never finished, Dash's mouth shutting him up before he reached the end. A pleasant shiver traversed his spine.

It was nice—being kissed _anyway_, as opposed to _for the purpose of_.

Dash's tongue brushed his lower lip—shy, but begging entrance nonetheless—and Tucker, swallowing a shudder, permitted him access. He opened his mouth slowly, felt Dash venture in, their tongues barely tapping at first, curious and experimental, then gradually rubbing more boldly as Dash adjusted to the idea of tasting himself there, but only when they finally tangled fully, as per usual, did Tucker allow himself to relax into it.

"You know…" he began quietly at their first parting, "lunch…is-"

"-nowhere near done," muttered Dash without checking his watch, dipping back in to effectively silence any further comments to the contrary, and Tucker gave a soft huff, but relented anyway. "Plenty of time…"

"Hmm, I see," murmured Tucker, smiling into repeated kisses. "Time for what, exactly?"

Dash paused, raising an eyebrow. "What, you didn't think we were _done_, did you?" he asked, and Tucker, having closed both eyes at some point during the kissing process, peeked one open suspiciously.

"Why…am I in trouble if I say yes?" he asked, and Dash rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, Foley, big trouble," he muttered, sarcastic, "and the best part is…" His smile broadened into a wicked grin, "I'm the one who gets to enforce the punishment."

"Uh…" Tucker gulped. "Wait, did I miss some-"

Dash stood. "Scootch," he ordered, making a swivel motion with his finger, and, warily, Tucker complied, moving around and back a bit according to Dash's indication and watching as Dash took a moment to search the stocked shelves. After a second, he snatched down two towels and tossed them behind Tucker's back. "Lean back some," came the second order, and again, Tucker obliged, propping his elbows back against the provided cushioning as Dash moved down again, settling between his knees—and _then_ it hit him.

"Oh!" A blush crept up Tucker's cheeks. "What I just…I mean, when I…I acted more on a sort of a spur of the moment kina thing just now," he hastened to explain. "You seemed really…tense, like you could use some, err…stress relief, I didn't mean for you to…that is, you don't have t-" Dash pecked his lips, silencing him.

"And maybe I want to?" said Dash.

"I, uh…oh." Tucker's blush darkened, and since arguing with someone offering to bring you to orgasm didn't tend to inspire many convincing arguments, he finished with a rather soft, "Ok."

"Besides," Dash brushed lips along his chin, "I dragged you here…" kissed his jaw, "if all I did was shove you against a door…" his neck, "and let you suck me off…" his collar, "without giving anything back…" Tucker's pulse stuttered rebelliously, "that wouldn't be very fair…would it?"

"I…suppose not…" conceded Tucker, fighting a losing battle to keep his voice as Dash's hand moved steadily south, cupped him through polyester and cotton, and then ran his thumb along the zipper seam.

"And anyway…" Dash worked open his first button, then his fly, "I want to try something…" and before Tucker had half a second to consider that, Dash was sliding down, moving between his legs and surely he wasn't going to—? But, "If you can do it, it can't be _that_ hard, right?" must have been a rhetorical question, because—oh_fuck_, Tucker bit his lip hard not to buck—apparently he most definitely _was_.

Dash Baxter, star quarterback, King of Casper High, was going on all fours in a broom closet and _sucking him off_.

Shutting his eyes because everyone knew the best way to end a blowjob _fast_ was to watch, Tucker's fists clenched tightly in the towels beneath him, and he forced his attention onto the basics: breathing, _not_ jutting his hips up into the hot, wet mouth moving up and down around his—_god_—cock, sucking and bobbing, and—Tucker dropped his head back with a soft, tight sound that caught in the back of his throat—this was the sort of things schoolgirls fantasized about, wasn't it? Having Dash's mouth between their legs, pressing their knees far apart and delving in with his tongue like—_holyfuck_. Tucker's toes curled tight in his sneakers, hips quivering with the need to buck, and Dash's palm slid up his inner thigh, thumb twitching ever so close but not _quite_ touching where his mouth was before sharply turning off and pinning his hip hard to the floor—fucking_tease_. Tucker simpered.

At least, he thought dizzily, Dash wasn't _practiced_ at this—which, of course, brought up the fact that no, actually, Dash had _never_ done this before. And that thought was sort of thrilling in and of itself.

Of course Dash had never done _this_. Rough, tough, macho football players didn't suck dick; beautiful, popular athletes didn't get half-naked and sweaty with bottom feeders in janitor's closets—except that that was exactly what Dash was doing, and doing a mighty good job of it too. So much so, in fact, that Tucker barely noticed when his hand slipped a little further back than his hip, thought nothing of it when he edged his pants a down a bit more and slid his fingers back—didn't notice anything, really, until Dash's fingers were already skimming the fine line between his lower back and the upper rise of his now partly bare ass. Then, Tucker drew a sharp breath.

"_Dash_…"

"Hn?" was all vibration, straight through Tucker's system something like he might imagine really _strong_ alcohol—hot and dizzying, rippling under his skin and liquidating his resistance in two thumps of a racing heartbeat, and suddenly—Dash could touch him wherever the hell he liked as long as he kept doing _that_.

Tucker shook his head mutely.

"Nm…n-nothing…" he managed.

Dash shrugged, and the 'fine line' between back and ass was crossed. Tucker shivered, cheeks hot and knees shaking as Dash's hand grew progressively bolder, pushing his pants farther and farther out of the way as he brushed and gripped and kneaded, and simultaneously working his mouth like he wanted to exorcize Tucker's soul through his cock—and Tucker was eternally thankful to be on his back, clutching at towels and panting to the ceiling, because his legs never would have held out through this standing upright.

Then, he felt it—starting in his chest like a slow knot, building on itself and pulling gradually tighter. Dash's fingers dipped to a new low and pinched, drawing a sharp yelp, and Tucker meant to snap, but his breath backed up instead, stacking up into shorter, tighter gasps, and he settled for burying his fingers in Dash's hair—_sosoft_—and clinging like he might fall off the edge of the universe otherwise.

"D-dash…I'm…nngh…" he started to say, but then Dash finally managed to maneuver his pants all the way down to where the waist hung somewhere around his thighs, immediately moving in to grab at the newly bared merchandise, and Tucker drew a chopped, shaky pant, rocking back into the grip and then, "Oh, god, r-really…you've got to…u-up, now or-" Dash dropped his mouthful, caught him at the base to stall release, and leaned up. Tucker thought he might die.

"Say please," curled hot against his ear, and Tucker broke.

"_Please_," he gasped, pride forgotten as his hips jerked up, _needing_ just one more stroke, just a _little_ more friction, "oh, please...Dash, I-" and then Dash obliged, and his world fell apart in the most fantastic way possible.

Dash's mouth caught his moans, kissed him through the blind, shaking delirium known as orgasm, and stayed with him as his body twitched and trembled. Dash held him, moving with him until he spent all but the most basic energy required to breathe, and about then, Tucker graciously sank to the floor, boneless for all practical purposes.

"So," Dash asked right about the time Tucker thought that maybe, if he opened his eyes, there was a chance he'd be able to see again, "that was ok, then?"

Tucker tested the theory. Yup. Eyesight: check. Dash looked amazingly cute pink cheeked and hair amuck. After a healthy pause, he gave a quiet snicker and shut his eyes again, nodding. "Yeah, I guess you could say that," he agreed, "at least, if 'ok' is Baxter-ese for 'absolutely fucking fantastic' or something…"

"Hn."

Some shuffling followed, and then something dropped to his stomach, and he forced an eye back open to see…

"Paper towels?" he asked, shifting up onto his elbows and rearranging slightly-foggy glasses for a better view. Dash pointed to a shelf, and Tucker squinted—then blushed. "Oh," he murmured, "I didn't…see those earlier."

Dash raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? And why would that make any-" Tucker saw the thought occur to him, watched it develop in his face, and then very abruptly Dash grinned broadly, suddenly terribly amused. "So _that's_ why you-"

"Man, _shhh_," Tucker defended, clapping a hand over Dash's mouth when he broke down into snickering, "I didn't want to make a _mess_…" he insisted, but this only served to worsen Dash's laughter, and finally Tucker groaned, sitting up and catching behind Dash's neck, tugging their mouths together until the snickers slowly died into a pleased hum against repeated kisses. By the time they parted, Dash had quieted fully, but his grin remained.

"Ok, whatever you say…but remind me to hide the tissue more often, yeah?" he teased, and Tucker huffed.

"Yeah, uh-huh," he muttered, "just you wait…we'll…hmm…see…" but his grumbling died out under another kiss, and then another, and then, reluctantly, he pulled back from a third, saying, "We really…_should_ see how much time we have…lunch doesn't actually last forever…" Unfortunately.

"Ah, we got…" Dash brought out his wrist, squinting in the dim light and leaning back, "…oh."

"Oh?" Tucker made use of the paper towels, cleaning and putting himself back together, then dug in his pocket. "I think you might have to translate that one for me…"

"Means we got, uh…two minutes…" said Dash, and Tucker fumbled.

"_Two?_ We only…ah, fuckit."

"What?" asked Dash.

Tucker sighed. "I'm hungry…" At Dash's look, his pout intensified. "_What?_ I'm a teenage guy, I get hungry when I don't have lunch, I need my protein…you should know. I think hunger is a pretty natural reaction…" Then, he shook his head. "Oh well, no help for it now…here," He held out a stick of gum, "might wanna chew that," he suggested, and when Dash looked puzzled, Tucker explained, "unless of course you _want_ everyone you talk to wondering why your breath smells like cock all d-"

"Alright, right, got it," said Dash, taking the gum, and Tucker chuckled, popping in a piece of his own and then pushing himself up and standing as Dash did the same.

"So," Tucker shoved his hands in his pockets, "what're you gonna tell Kwan?"

"I…" Dash frowned. "Man, I got no clue," he admitted with a sigh. "I mean…" He ran a hand back through his hair, concern showing starkly in his face, "whatever it seems like he'll believe, I guess…?" he ventured. "What would…what do _you_ think I should tell him?"

Tucker raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Me? Pshh…he's not _my_ best friend, how should I know? Far as I'm concerned…long as you don't tell him I dress up in frilly pink knickers, parade around in French maid outfits and get off kissing your toes and washing your jockstraps, I'm cool, yeah?"

Dash blinked.

"What?" said Tucker.

"Knickers?" asked Dash.

"Yeah…you know, undies, panties…girls wear them…well, most of the time, that is, unless they're like…really slutty…which isn't necessarily-"

"I know what they _are_…" said Dash. "I was just…thinking."

Tucker eyed him, then, eventually, shrugged. "Alright, well…I wouldn't worry about it, anyway. Worst come to worst, if you think your football career is in danger, you could always just…you know, quit associating with me altogether," he said, and Dash threw him a sharp look. "What?"

"Yeah, right," growled Dash, "like hell _that's_ going to happen," and Tucker raised his eyebrows.

"Well, you never know," he said, "you might get bored of me…or something could happen and-" Very suddenly, Dash was _close_ and—when had Tucker's back hit the wall?

"That what you _want_, Foley?" he asked, breath hot and distracting and—Tucker shook his head, lips sealed. "Good," said Dash, "'cause it's not happening, and if _every_one has to know you're mine for this to work…" The sentence trailed off, but Tucker shivered because 'mine' was final, indisputable, and—

The door banged loudly, making them both jump.

"Shit," they swore in unison.

* * *

**A/N:** Alright, so, there probably won't be an update next Friday. As I get near the end of my saved up chapters, I'm gonna drag 'em out a bit more. Probably every other week or so, from now on. However, I do want to say thank you, again, to my small horde of reviewers, and thank you if you've favorited and/or added this to your story alerts…but…why have so many people favorited but not reviewed? *cries a river* Ok, ok, I'm done. Thanks anyway, even if you're just reading and don't have the time to drop a note. Hope everyone has a great Valentine's Day. :)


	13. Disruption

**Chapter Thirteen:**  
Disruption

"Come _out!_ You, you…dirty, cheating…_yo sé estás adentro allí!_"

"Paulina!" Kwan's voice came through the door, cutting in right after the first few bangs, and the pounding stuttered to a halt, footsteps approaching. "Paulina," Kwan sounded out of breath, as if maybe he'd been chasing her, "this is the fourth-"

"He's _cheating_ on me!" Paulina accused, voice shaking. "He's…he's…" She made a soft, choked sound, "on _me!_ No one does this…to _me_," she insisted, as if trying to force the concept into fact and begging for confirmation. Feet shuffled, heavy, probably Kwan's.

"Hey, look," he consoled, sounding uncertain and possibly nervous, "you don't…_know_ that…just 'cause he wasn't at lunch doesn't mean he's not…I don't know, in the bathroom, or-"

"All _lunch_?" Paulina demanded, a flicker of temper shining through. "No. I know him…I _know_ him! This is…" There was a pause as she took a breath, "…this is what he _does_, don't you understand? When he is upset, if he's not throwing that Fenton kid in a locker, he's…" She made a quick, frustrated sound—like a contained scream through grit teeth—and banged the door again. "It's not…_fair_."

"I don't understand…why you're so upset," Kwan spoke up again, softer.

"He's my _boyfriend_," Paulina snapped back, irritated. "What more reason do I need?"

Kwan stayed quiet for a brief period, then said, "Well, yeah, but…" He sounded pensive, hesitant, "…it's not like…_you_ don't cheat on _him_…I mean, not that I even think this is totally right," he hastened to add, "'cause I mean…Foley? Like for real? But-"

"First," she cut him off, "I _am_ right, and second, that's _different_."

"How?" demanded Kwan. "If he wants to go run off with some other guy while you-"

"Because _I_," snarled Paulina, "know the _difference_. He is so dumb, I could blow Marcus in the shower _next_ to him after practice and he'd never know…but I know when something's up. He can't hide from me, and when I catch him…he _and_ his little four-eyed, loser boyfriend are so-"

The bell rang.

"We'll finish this conversation later," Paulina muttered.

"Maybe it's 'cause he _trusts_ you!" Kwan called out after her as her footsteps swept off and away, and Dash thought he heard a low grumble of, "And I _still_ don't get how it's _different_…" before Kwan left too, heading on to class.

Inside, neither Dash nor Tucker moved for a long while. Finally, Tucker shifted, frowning, and Dash watched him open his mouth, pause, and then say, "Well…that was…" He trailed off. "Look, I'm sorr-"

"Don't apologize," grunted Dash, pushing up off the wall and stuffing his hands in his pockets with a scowl. "It's not your fault. Besides," He looked back to meet Tucker's eyes, "you're _not_ sorry, are you?" he asked, and it took Tucker a moment to reply.

"Well, no," he admitted eventually, "but-"

"Then don't say it," said Dash. "Come on…" He unlocked the door, "…we better get out before everyone gets here," and Tucker followed him out when he opened the door, but didn't leave immediately. Even after Dash closed and locked up behind them, he lingered, and Dash eyed him curiously. "Class?" he suggested.

Tucker glanced over. "Oh, yeah, I know," he said, though his brow furrowed and he stayed put. "It's just…" He looked down, eyeing his sneakers, "…I mean, I guess what I meant was…I'm sorry she had to…well, that is…it must have been at least a _little_ upset-"

"Hey," Dash caught Tucker's chin, risking the public gesture despite the approaching rumble of student voices, "it's my problem, ok? I'll deal with it."

"Ok…" Tucker answered warily, "but what if-"

Dash kissed him—so quick Tucker's words barely cut off before Dash was already pulling back—and he answered a startled, round-eyed stare with a light smirk. "I'll _deal_ with it, ok? I already kina guessed, anyway, and trust me…it's not breaking my heart."

Tucker hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged. "Alright," he conceded. "I'll…see you, then?" he said, and Dash watched his fingers raise—probably without thinking—to his neck, skimming an already deep-purple mark, and Dash's smirk broadened.

"Yeah," He nodded, "sure," and he watched Tucker smile, then turn and move off, and followed suit a second later. Who ever said Monday was the worst day of the week?

An hour and a half later, he was singing a different tune.

"McGinnis and Carlyle, Rivers and Johnson, and…" The teacher's eyes scanned the room, "Baxter and Fenton," he finished, and Dash sank low in his seat. This was _not_ happening to him. "Did I leave anyone out?" No one moved. "Good. Now remember, this is a group assignment as much as it is a creative writing project. I want you to work together, get to know your partner…and try and have fun with this. Since there are only fifteen minutes left in class, I know…"

Dash stopped listening. At least, a small malicious part of him thought, Fenton looked just as unhappy about the arrangement as he was. When other kids started moving together, he stayed put, crossing his arms and settling in his seat—willing the other boy to make the first move. For several seconds, Fenton met his glare, equally stubborn, but eventually he rolled his eyes and stood, lodging his backpack over one shoulder and dragging a desk up near Dash to face him. After plopping down, he immediately took out a notebook and pen.

"Alright, so how much actually sank in, and how much made music in the hollow shell between your ears?" Fenton asked none-too-charmingly, tapping his pen to the blank pad, and Dash frowned.

"Huh?"

Fenton rolled his eyes. "I thought as much. Ok, so look…you might not give a shit about your grade…or maybe you'll get an A no matter what you do, but whatever the case, I'd like to not fail, so how's this…I'll ask you some really _simple_ questions…and all you have to do-"

"Man, whatever, Fenton," Dash snapped, "what are we _supposed_ to be doing?"

For a second, he thought the kid wasn't even gonna answer—but then he spoke up. "An interview," he said, "and then a paper. We're supposed to get to know each other and then write a reactionary biography." Dash grimaced. "And don't even give me that look…I'm as thrilled as you are."

Dash snorted. "I'll bet, Fenton…but what the heck am I supposed to write about _you?_"

Across from him, Fenton's lips curled back in an impressive sneer. "Oh, I don't know…make up a fantasy about me being a _super_hero for all I care…just so long as you don't fall asleep drooling in the middle of my interview, I really don't give a shit." He popped open his pen. "Birthday?"

Dash rolled his eyes. "August ninth, gonna buy me somethin'?"

Fenton ignored the jibe and scribbled. "Birthplace?"

"Ughh…this'll be the most boring paper ever…why not ask something interesting?"

"Yeah?" Fenton surprised him by looking up, but an odd glint in his eyes made Dash instantly uneasy. "Ok…how was lunch?" he asked—and that was a little unexpected. "Oh wait…that's right…" he amended, "you weren't _there_…too busy vamping out on my best friend's _neck_?" and Dash frowned.

After two second's debate, he made his decision, and curved his frown up into a smirk, leaning forward against his desk. "Liked that, did you?" he purred, watching Fenton's expression twitch and eyes narrow thinly. "I actually kina liked it…thought it looked real nice on all that pretty brown skin…a good-"

"Hey, _shut_ it," Fenton growled, and Dash raised his eyebrows, moving back a bit with faux-innocence as he raised his hands off the table defensively.

"Whoa, no need to get touchy, Fenton…you _asked_…" he reminded him, delighting in the heat this brought to Fenton's glare—the way it lit up his cheeks, "…and anyway, I thought he was just your _friend_…what does it matter to you? Don't like fags?"

"He's not gay," Fenton hissed, "he's bi, though what he sees in _you_ I have no idea, and it _matters_ because you're a dipshit and an asshole, and I don't particularly like the thought of my _friend_ at the mercy of a volatile, temperamental gorilla with the attention span of a flea…ok?"

Dash matched the other, glare for glare, but reined his temper. "Oh yeah? That's really funny, Fenton, 'cause for a second there…it sounded like maybe you were _jealous_…"

"I'm _not_-"

"What's the matter?" he cut in, sneering nastily. "Do you miss having him on his knees for you?" Fenton physically tensed. "Or maybe you just don't like the thought of him on his knees for me…" Dash considered aloud, and it quickly became a personal contest—how white could he get Fenton's knuckles? How red could he make that previously pale, sneering disposition? "You did train him up into quite an efficient little cocksucker…" he continued, smiling when Fenton's grip began to barely perceptibly shake, "but I guess you never did get him to spread his legs…actually, I sort of got the impression he thought you were the one who belonged in a skir-"

For a half second, he thought Fenton's eyes turned green—not like Tucker's deep, forest green, but an eerie, other-worldly glow like he might expect from one of those Japanese cartoon shows right before the ninja turned into a giant twenty-tailed dragon-beast or something—and then he shut them tight, as if pulling himself back from some mental precipice.

Dash swallowed. That wasn't _natural_, right? Maybe he'd just imagined…

"If we…weren't in a classroom…I _swear_-" Abruptly as flipping a power breaker, the words came to a clipped, sputtering halt, and after, a tiny, sharp inhale, Fenton asked with suddenly sharp, strained civility, "So, do you have any endearing memories from your childhood?"

"Wh…huh?" Dash took a moment to look absolutely thrown before he noticed the teacher looming behind him, and he felt himself pale, choking convincingly. "Oh, I uhh…well there was this one time…" His words trailed, and he sank with relief as the teacher moved on to another desk. As soon as they were out of earshot again, he fixed Fenton with another glare. "_You_ nearly got me-"

"I _saved_ your ass," Fenton snarled before he finished, and Dash snorted.

"Ok, whatever," he grunted, "you saved your _own_ ass…and what was that about 'if we weren't in a classroom?'"

Fenton's eyes narrowed again—but at least, Dash thought with no undue relief, they were definitely _blue_ this time. "If we weren't in a classroom…you'd be regretting you ever _dared_-"

"Really, Fenton?" he challenged, "Sounds like you've forgotten already why you spent half your life in a locker freshman year…" and he made no secret of sizing up his possible opponent: not an inch taller than Tucker, similarly built, and at least as wiry, but _small_. He shook his head with an amused huff, pointedly ignoring the uneasy garble still left in the pit of his stomach after the whole glowing, demonic chameleon eyes thing. "I'd _break_ you."

"Yeah? Well maybe I need a refresher course," Fenton taunted, not looking nearly as threatened as Dash might have liked—in fact, he looked downright _cocky_—and Dash resisted the urge to crack his knuckles. The kid was practically _begging_ for it. "Never know…maybe you're out of practice…"

"If-"

The bell rang.

All around them, students burst up. The teacher said was saying something about working more tomorrow and partners possibly arranging extra after-school get-togethers. Yeah, right, Dash thought, like _that_ was going to happen. Fenton was already almost packed, hands in his backpack as he fiddled with something.

"What was that you said about Tucker earlier?" he asked, and Dash rolled his eyes.

"What?" he sniped, "About my appreciation for you training him up to be a good cocksucker?" For some reason, Fenton's smile made his heart thud forebodingly.

"Yeah," Fenton said, "that," and only then did Dash catch sight of what he was fiddling with—his phone. "Amazing what technology can do these days," Fenton mused. "You know originally, this thing couldn't do crap, but Tucker fiddled with it for me, fixed it up, you know…so now not only can I text and call obviously…but it does photos, video cam…and voice recording." When Dash paled, Fenton's grin broadened cruelly. "I'm sure he'll _love_ to hear that that's what you think of him…"

"No," Dash choked, "wait…" but Fenton slung his backpack over his shoulder, ignoring him completely. "Fenton! Shit, I said that to piss _you_ off!" he insisted desperately, struggling to get his stuff together and follow up, despite Fenton's insistence on ignoring him. "That's not…I didn't mean…god dammit, won't you hold up? Fenton, _please_…" he begged before he even thought about, the words falling out and he almost clapped a hand over his mouth, but—too late. At least Fenton's footsteps stuttered. After a moment, he turned slowly, others filing around them in the hall.

"Did you just say please?"

Dash opened his mouth, but nothing came immediately. "I…it's just…" He teetered between the boiling need to swing a fist between those horribly satisfied, mocking blue eyes, and the dizzying fear of Tucker hearing those words and—he hadn't _meant_ it like that, dammit! "If you…he'll…you can't just…"

Fenton eyed him for a moment, a new, curious expression coming over him. "You actually give a shit about him…don't you?"

Dash felt heat sweep up in his cheeks—anger and embarrassment—and, "No," he snapped defensively, "I just…it's…" He hesitated, unnerved again by Fenton's expression, and why was this so damn _difficult_? "…I don't want you to…I mean, if he hears that, you'll just hurt him, and-"

Fenton snorted. "Oh, yeah, 'cause you think he actually cares about _you_?" he said sneeringly, and Dash wasn't prepared for the cold, sickening knot that came with that—worse than a gut punch, and those _hurt_. He swallowed thickly. What the hell did Fenton know, anyway? "He knows you're an asshole and dumb as bricks, he's not _stupid_…but for some reason he's putting up with it…I guess 'cause you're not too sore on the eyes. I'm just hoping maybe this'll knock some sense into him about what you really are…but don't worry…" Fenton looked so damn smug, and Dash's fists clenched and trembled. "When he leaves you…" The bastard had the nerve to _wink_, "…I'll take good care of him," and Dash's first punch met its mark—hard.

After that, everything ran together.

Fenton's jaw felt great, giving against his knuckles, and a loud _BANG_ was Fenton's back slamming the lockers. Then something hit _him_ and—damn, maybe he'd underestimated Fenton's ability to throw a punch, but no matter—he snatched the offensive fist a quarter second later, slipping to catch the wrist and twist and—oh, yes, Fenton's scream was music—maybe he'd broken something? Plenty of time to day dream later, preferably sometime without Fenton's elbow in his gut, making him lurch and spin, and the crowd's "Fight, fight, fight!" was an unnecessary mantra as students started to gather, circling up and creating their very own human arena. Dash wondered how long he had before the teachers made their showing.

Fenton was stronger than he gave him credit for—not to mention _fast_—and every now and then he got the sense that the kid was just _toying_ with him—like fucking Spiderman or something, dipping this and swerving out of that, and holy fuck, had his hand just gone _through_ his body? Not possible, Dash reminded himself, a little disoriented, and the moment passed so fast he couldn't have dwelled on it even if he'd wanted to. When he got Fenton to the floor, it was too much of a victory to fully process the sharp cry of "Danny!" that erupted from somewhere in the crowd—Fenton was _down_ and not about to get away.

Blood pounded in his ears as he sank his fists in the smaller body, barely registering when Fenton quit fighting back, and by the time whistles started blowing, he had lost most sense of the rest of the world, just digging in as Fenton lay there, limp as a worn rag under him and taking the hits blow by blow. Then—about time—hands grabbed at his shoulders, circled his arms, and yanked back his wrists. It took multiple bodies to drag him up and off. More whistles blew, teachers shouted through the crowd, and Dash's heart felt lodged in his throat, nearly choking him with its pounding, and his entire body burned, shaking with dizzying amounts of adrenaline and a sweeping head rush as he staggered to his feet and followed the guidance of those forcing him back, not bothering to resist.

"Danny, oh god, _Danny_," was that goth chick, shoving her way through the crowd and dropping to her knees, and right behind her—Tucker. Dash's heart gave an extra, stuttered thump.

Suddenly, he felt like a convict.

It had been so much Fenton's _fault_—ok, well, so technically, Dash had thrown the first punch—but all Tucker or the teachers had _seen_ was him wailing into a bloodied, unmoving body, and—god—Fenton _still_ wasn't moving?

Tucker's eyes found him—furious, confused, hurt, accusing—and Dash couldn't explain a thing, still being pulled back and away. It struck him far too late that maybe Fenton really had quit on purpose in the end—why the hell not? This way, everything was Dash's fault—the teachers thought so, Tucker thought so—and best of all, Tucker probably wouldn't talk to him for ages, possibly not even want anything to do with him.

Someone was shouting at him, but Dash wasn't listening. The last thing he saw before the crowd swallowed the scene up was Tucker leaning down, propping up a limp—unconscious?—Danny Fenton onto his shoulder and bringing paper towels to bleeding lips as a teacher—was that the new school nurse?—knelt down beside him.

For the first time in his life, Dash honestly hoped the bloodied brunet was ok—for his own sake, if nothing else. This was not shaping up to a good Monday.

**Translation: **_Yo sé estás adentro allí!_ - I know you're in there!

**A/N:** Omigod, eight reviews?? :O That's more than I've gotten for a single chapter on this since…well, chapter one! So many, many thanks go out to unknown20troper, Xx supersweetsealedwithakiss xX, half-hearted heroine, Rotella, Momokitty, Thunderstorm101, YeahYouWannaKnowMyName, and CieloCrimsi! I know I probably can't expect as big a lump every time around, but it still felt nice. :)

To supersweet (and anyone with this general sentiment): Sorry that I didn't cave. The flattery _is_ wonderful, and if I thought I could actually keep updating once a week, I would, but the sad truth is that (as I've told some others and may have mention in an A/N, I'm not sure) I'm happy to finish writing a chapter a month. With school in session, writing for me goes _slow_. Spring break is coming up, and if I can manage to be inspired during that, I may be able to get ahead of myself again, but for now, I'm just trying to prolonge the inevitable. But, getting reviews on here does often inspire me to open up my word processor and get to work on whatever chapter I am on, so it does help in the end. :)


	14. Oscillations

**Chapter Fourteen:**  
Oscillations

"Hey, _oww_," whined Danny, shirking away from the press of a peroxide-coated cotton swab—and Tucker hit him for his efforts.

"Hold _still_," he demanded, scowling and gripping Danny's shoulder more firmly with his spare hand before returning to his previous activity: clearing away the last flecks of rubble from an open cut on Danny's bicep with a damp rag and following up the sweeps with dabs of the anti-bacterial disinfectant. "It wasn't _my_ brilliant idea to run headlong into a bunch of flying debris in the face of—dammit, Danny!"

"It _stings_ though," Danny whimpered, puckering out his lower lip and succeeding splendidly in an obvious attempt to look as tortured and pitiful as possible. Tucker remained merciless.

"You'll thank me when your whole arm doesn't puff up all purple and green and pus-infected with ghost slime…" he replied flatly, all too familiar with Danny's simpering to fall prey to the puppy-dog pout at this point.

"You're—_owww_—cruel. I hope you never plan to be a—shit_nngh_—doctor…when you grow up," Danny panted, watching with wary eyes when Tucker finally pulled back and folded out a large, surgical band-aid over the damaged area. "Does that mean you're…done, then?" he asked, sounding almost pathetically hopeful, and Tucker raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I'm done," he answered, smiling in spite of himself when Danny whooped and shaking his head. "You know…for a superhero, you really must be the least pain tolerant-"

"Hey, look, I _recognize_ pain for what it is, ok?" defended Danny. "Pain is my body's way of telling me something bad is happening to me, and that if at all possible, I should make it stop. If it's unavoidable pain…ok, but that doesn't mean I have to _like_ it."

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh," He began packing stuff back up in the first aid kit laid out on the bed, "which is why it makes perfect sense to pick a fight with the school's star quarterback and-"

"Hey, that's not fair, he hit me fir-"

"Oh, _right_," snapped Tucker in sarcastic apology, "I forgot. And that was right after you made an innocent comment about the weather, right?"

Danny frowned. "Ok, whatever," he grumbled, "…he still hit me first."

Tucker snorted. "Sorry, I didn't mean to…snap…but…what _did_ you say to him anyway?" he asked, and then, after a moment, "…and what the _hell_ inspired you to piss him off so bad?"

Danny blushed, the color rising slow and warm in his cheeks—and he dropped his eyes to the comforter. "Just…stuff," he muttered. "We were paired together in class, and…he…" His frown deepened, lips thinning, and he crossed his arms. "Maybe he just irritated me, ok?"

"Oh, I see," countered Tucker, matching Danny's folded arms and settling stubbornly against the headboard—Danny wasn't getting off _that_ easily, "and that all makes perfect sense because we both know Dash is a _brilliant_ manipulator…not to mention you obviously lack the emotional maturity to know how to handle yourself and recognize when to quit…I can picture it being very difficult for you to outwit him if it came to that."

"That's not-" Danny scowled. "You…" He paused again, "it was just…" A half-second later, he huffed, toeing a dip in the quilting. "Whatever…I think you're being overly touchy about it…"

"_Touchy_?" repeated Tucker. "Right, and that's weird…because, I mean, really, why would this subject bother me?"

Danny raised his eyebrows. "No, really…why?"

Tucker stared, incredulous. "You know what…never mind." He slid around, slinging his legs off the side of the mattress.

"Tucker-"

"Whatever, forget it," Tucker cut him off, "it's not important," and he dropped off the side of the bed to the floor. "Just…don't pick at the bandage, and obviously keep it under your shirt or something if you don't your parents raising a spit about it. I'm…gonna head back to my house and-"

"No, _wait_," Danny halted him, "really, Tuck, what's wrong?" he asked, insisting, and Tucker hesitated.

It would have been better to just leave—really. What good would it do indulge any further? And yet…

Tucker sighed.

"He could have _killed_ you, Danny."

Immediately, the look on Danny's face said otherwise. "He couldn't-"

"Well, no," Tucker amended, "you're right, he couldn't, because you could have stopped him…but that's just you, Danny. _You_ could have phased out if you really needed to, or gone invisible or, hell, floated straight up through the roof…but _he_ didn't know that. As far as he knows, you're just some kid half his size throwing insults around. For all he knew he _could_ have killed you…one wrong hit to your nose and a bone puncture to your brain, or one knock too hard against the tile, and yeah, of course it would have been an accident, and he probably didn't even think of that possibility till you were already laying there fucking bloody and halfway to unconsciousness, but…that wouldn't have _mattered_…you know? It was dangerous and stupid, and…it just…" Tucker folded his arms tighter, suppressing a shiver and shaking his head. He waited a bit before continuing, softer this time. "It's been almost a week…and I haven't let him get a word in edgewise," he admitted. "He's approached me several times but every time I see him, all I think of is…" He trailed off, expression deepening into a thick frown. "But I guess that's good news, right?" he asked, lifting his head and fixing Danny with the look. "That was the goal…wasn't it? To get me away from him?"

"Tucker-"

"He keeps calling me, Danny, and I _shouldn't_ want to talk to him," Tucker insisted, "ok? I _know_ I shouldn't. He bludgered you senseless! He took my best friend and pounded him into the floor even after he stopped fighting…and he probably didn't think twice about it. Hell, he didn't even get suspended for it! It's not something to just 'get over' and talk about over tea and fucking cookies or something, but I…no matter how much I try and just think about it logically or work through it, I…I can't…I just _want_…"

Danny was watching him—pensive, evaluating. When Tucker's words came to a breathy, uncertain halt, Danny frowned. "Well…you said it yourself," he murmured, "I did taunt him. He never would have attacked me out of the blue like that, and he wasn't _trying_ to kill me…and I did stop on purpose in the end…so that it would be his fault…"

Tucker shook his head. "That's not the point though. The point is, it doesn't matter what you did…he shouldn't have done…_that_. I mean obviously _you_ shouldn't have done…whatever you did…capable or not, something could have gone wrong…but _he_ should have had better control too, not just…fly off and…it's-"

"I told him I'd break you two up," Danny cut in, and Tucker looked up sharply, "in addition to, you know…calling him a dumb fuck…telling him that you didn't give a shit about him and were only putting up with him for…whatever the hell it is you two do together, and umm…" Danny swallowed, "…promising that I'd take good care of you for him once you dumped him and he was out of the picture…"

Tucker stared. "You…_what?_"

"I'm…sorry?" defended Danny weakly, and Tucker's stomach gave a sickening jolt—suddenly he was grateful to be sitting.

"But…why would you…"

"You _said_ that that was all it was about!" said Danny. "You said it was just sex and you didn't even know his favorite color and-"

"Danny, that was _months_ ago!" cried Tucker. "I can't even…this is nothing _about_…" At Danny's look, he blushed, "…ok, well maybe it's still _some_ about that, but…it's _more_ than that too, now, ok? I mean yeah, he's still hot as a branding iron and the sex is better than two lesbians in a wet t-shirt con-"

"Ok, I get it," grunted Danny.

"But the _point_ is," Tucker continued, skipping the rest for Danny's sake, "he's not like you think. Once you get to know him, he's considerate and careful…and he's not dumb either…don't look at me like that! I've worked with him, Danny, and yeah, he has to work a bit harder than you or I would, but if you approach it right, he _does_ work hard…and he works until he _gets_ it…and…he's actually like that with a lot of stuff. You'd think he wouldn't be because he does have a temper like a time bomb on steroids or crack or both, I won't lie, but…that's just his temper. Outside of that, he's patient and methodical…he doesn't mind waiting, as long as he's making progress, and sometimes…he can be really…sweet…"

"Ah," said Danny, looking terribly skeptical. "Yeah. Sweet. That's, umm…that's exactly the vibe I was getting as he pounded my face in…"

"Ok, whatever, Danny," Tucker snapped, about ready to bite _some_body's head off, "it sounds like you were begging for that anyway, and at this point…I almost envy him that chance to sock you good for it. You…I can't _believe_…"

Danny sank slightly against the headboard, eyeing him charily. "But…what if that was _you_…" he ventured, and Tucker glared sharply.

"Oh, right, because it would totally make sense for me to taunt him and tell him I was…" His rambling slowed, "…breaking…up with him…" and his glare softened, morphing into concerned consideration as the idea actually began to sink in.

"See what I mean?" Danny asked softly. "It's not so impossible. What if you did want to break it off someday? Or you found someone else and told him? Like you said, _I_ can handle it…but _you_ can't phase through fists, Tucker…"

Tucker opened his mouth, but nothing came immediately. "I…" He frowned, "…well, yeah, I know _that_, but…" He tried to detach himself from the matter, think about it rationally—_would_ Dash do something like…? "No," he said aloud, "it's…that's different. He wouldn't…he's not like that. At least, not…not to…"

"You?" Danny finished, and Tucker looked up.

"Yeah, Danny," he said, "not to me," and Danny took a moment before answering.

"You really do like him," he said finally, making it a statement, and Tucker weighed the words, letting the meaning slowly settle. Then, he nodded.

"Yeah," he answered, "I really do."

"But…do you…? That is, you're not…" Danny hesitated, looking anxious, and Tucker frowned, missing the lead-in.

"I'm not…?"

Danny blushed. "You're…like…you don't _love_-"

"No!" Tucker hastened to jump in, and immediately returned Danny's blush at the look his hurriedness received. "I mean," He swallowed, "…no," he reiterated, quieter. "No, I'm…" He diverted his gaze from Danny's pointed stare, redirecting it to the carpet, "…I'm not in love with him," he mumbled, forcing down the sudden warm, knotted feeling rising up from his chest to his throat.

"Ok," said Danny, sounding calmer and relieved, but not—Tucker noted with some unease—entirely convinced. "So…"

"I just like him," said Tucker, "…a lot…but I _am_ mad at him, too…or actually beyond that, really, 'cause at this point I don't even…I can't…I mean, what if you _weren't_ you? What if something had gone wrong and you had ended up…if he'd…"

"But I am, me," said Danny, looking as if he couldn't quite figure out why he was defending Dash but proceeding anyway, "and I wouldn't have _done_ it if I weren't and didn't know I could handle it, and…_maybe'oushldjusttalktohim_…"

"Uhh…what?" said Tucker.

"I said…" Danny took a breath, "maybe you should…you know, just…" He swallowed, obviously taking pains to get the words out, "…talk…to him…"

It took concentrated effort for Tucker not to gape. "You…but…then what was the point of you getting yourself pulverized if not to get us _apart_?"

"No, that was the point," said Danny. "That was pretty much the complete and total point…besides my just wanting to throw a fist in his jaw, too, 'cause don't get me wrong…I hate the bastard. I hate him, and I hate the idea of you _being_ with him, but…I guess…I didn't know it would affect you this much," he admitted more timidly. "I thought you really were just messing around and that it was dangerous and…well, obviously, I still don't _trust_ him, but…in the end, I suppose you being miserable is worse than all those other things bundled."

Tucker blinked—and wondered how much it took out of Danny to say that. "But…he still beat the crap out of you…"

"Well, yeah, but…I _wanted_ him to," said Danny, rolling his shoulders and then folding his hands behind his head. "I set him up, he fell for it, and I mean, you can't really blame him for _that_. He's not exactly brilliant, no matter what you say. Besides…it's not like it's all that hard to get him riled up…and that's never gonna change, so…"

Tucker observed his best friend, watched him shut his eyes and lean his head back against the headboard. "I guess…" he conceded eventually, "I'll…think about it," and he pushed up off the bed again, standing.

After leaving, Tucker silently considered that in all fairness, he likely ought not to have been speaking to _either_ of them. It really wasn't fair to blame just Dash—and he didn't, not really. He knew the entire ordeal was at least as much Danny's fault, if not more so, but that didn't change the fact that it was _easier_ to blame Dash—or at least, easier to avoid him—and Tucker needed time to think anyway.

School let out for Christmas that Friday, and by mid-week, he already missed the distraction of classes. While the surprising lack of ghost activity was nice in its own right, Tucker almost missed that too, because the plain truth was, without school or ghosts, all he _had_ was time. Time to tinker with his gadgets and avoid his family. Time to wriggle out of mediocre, seasonal chores—like cleaning up _everything_ in preparation for relatives or bringing down _all_ the old Christmas sets and ornaments and decorations from the attic. And, of course, time to think.

Unfortunately, for Tucker, thinking meant catching a brief glimpse of sky through cloud cover as he helped his dad drag down dusty boxes of Christmas lights and suddenly wondering what Dash was up to. It meant walking past the lake in the park with Sam and Danny only to gradually fade out of the conversation, wondering if Dash would ever teach him to skate now—and it meant just barely stifling the urge to throw something when he caught himself staring idly again at Dash's number for probably the fiftieth time that week. He supposed, technically, it should have relieved him when Dash quit calling—but it didn't.

-

"Hey, Earth to Tucker," A hand waved in front of his face, drawing him from a distracted reverie, and Tucker looked up to find Danny, eyebrows raised, "…anyone home? The land of the living calls…"

"Uh…huh?" he blinked, and Sam gave him an odd look too. "Oh, yeah, right, I was just, umm…thinking about something. What's up?"

Danny looked speculative, but just shrugged. They were at the park again, two days before Christmas, and the lake was filled with skaters of every sort: families, couples, young children and old grandparents. The sidewalks entertained a similar crowd. Apparently, the park was a great excuse to gather everyone together, young and old, for a little family cheer. That, and there was a Christmas tree lighting and some scheduled carol performances due to occur later that evening—Sam's excuse for dragging them there this time around.

"We were just gonna check out the mini-booth over there…looks like the Presbyterians are putting on a Christmas bake sale or something, but you kina zoned out. You in?" Danny asked, and Tucker shook his head to clear it.

"Oh, uh…" He frowned, swiping a glove over glasses gently dusted with snow and already slightly fogged. "No, umm…that's ok, you guys go on, I'm not hungry. I'll…catch up to you in a bit," he said.

After a moment of looking curiously puzzled—Tucker not only 'not hungry' but also refusing sweets was a miracle moment, perhaps the first of its kind—Danny shrugged. "Ok, suit yourself," he replied, "but don't look surprised if we bring you back something anyway. You look like you could use some sugar."

Tucker raised an eyebrow, and Sam gave him one last questioning look before she gave in to the tug of Danny's hand on her coat, urging her off. Once alone, Tucker absently meandered closer to the lake, shoving hands in his pockets and playing with the possible effects of steamed breath as he watched the various townspeople do their loops on the ice.

Understandably, the degree of skill from person to person varied as much as they did, everything from wobbly first timers—like baby deer learning to stand—to near-experts, sweeping through the steps and occasionally spinning tricks, comfortable as dolphins in their element. It didn't take long, though, before a particularly daring group of older skaters caught his attention—four of them, in their late teens, judging by their size, and probably from Casper High, but indistinguishable due to distance and several layers of cover.

As Tucker watched, they weaved in and out, moving significantly faster than the rest of the crowd, and seemed to make a game of seeing how close and fast they could pass slower attendees without actually hitting them. Steady, but still semi-balance-conscious pre-teens were their favorite targets, often dodging in especially close to those chosen victims and laughing when the teasing resulted in a startled fall. Tucker frowned. Of course, what kind of a sport was it if somebody didn't get bullied?

Sighing, he shut his eyes and wondered in passing if Danny and Sam had found anything good—actually, now that he thought about it, he was hungrier than he'd let on. About a half second before finalizing his decision to chase after them and scrounge up some food after all, he cast a single glance back to the ice—and the four were racing.

Swerving and tricks forgotten, they cut across the lake like dancers, fluid and _fast_, upper bodies low to the ice, and instead of teasing, now they made traffic dodging look effortless. They came from the opposite side of the lake—aligned at first—but almost immediately, a gap began to form, slowly, and then faster as the slower two seemed to concede, leaving the race mostly to the leading half. It came out extremely close, and Tucker worried for a second about their abilities to pull off a clean stop after coming in so quickly—but neither had an issue, and both finished winded, laughing, and close enough that if they hadn't been wearing hats and mufflers, he could have picked out faces. Then, the winner pulled off—her?—hat and scarf, and Tucker blinked, startled—_Valerie?_

Oh yeah, _definitely_ Valerie, Tucker thought, watching her shake long, thick hair free of her confining jacket and sending loose, rolling black tumbles all down her back as she rolled up her loosened muffler—and Tucker didn't wonder what Danny had seen in her. As if on cue, she looked up.

She offered an acquaintance's wave upon recognizing him before turning promptly to Second Place and nudging—Tucker assumed—'him.' Third and Fourth Place had arrived somewhere in the middle of her uncovering stage, and Second Place looked up at the nudge, catching sight of Tucker about the same time he tugged off his hat to reveal—Kwan. Almost immediately, Kwan spoke with Third Place. By that point, Tucker was almost _positive_ that—yup, suspicions: confirmed. Third Place—i.e., Dash—shucked his cap just as Kwan got his attention, pulling his free hand back through mangled blonde hat hair while he listened and then, after a cursory glance in Tucker's direction at Kwan's cue, the two began arguing heatedly.

They spent a good half minute at it, Dash looking defensive and Kwan gesturing in Tucker's direction, but eventually—defeated, by the looks of things—Dash's shoulders drooped and he tugged at his scarf, muttering some last comment before moving to the edge of the ice and stepping off. As Tucker watched, he sat, removed his scarf and skates and re-donned his sneakers before standing, and—Tucker knew—this was the time to back away. In fact, about three minutes ago when he first suspected Dash was even _possibly_ among them would have been an even better time, but as Dash trudged over, tucking scarf under one arm and skates slung over his shoulder, Tucker's legs might as well have been partially encased in several feet of ice for all the budging they did. When Dash stopped in front of him, he trampled the urge to gulp and forced himself to hold Dash's stare instead.

The very small portion of his brain _not_ devoted to getting oxygen into his lungs, screaming at him to flee, or demanding that he order Dash to back off _immediately_, observed that it really wasn't fair that Dash managed to look extremely hot even flushed and sweaty and scowling—or perhaps because of all those things, Tucker wasn't exactly in the state of mind to logic it out.

"Umm…hi," greeted Dash.

Tucker dropped his gaze to the collar of Dash's jacket—easier to face than those eyes, anyway—and he meant to say nothing, just stand there and wait, maybe, until Dash either said more or just walked away, but then Dash shuffled, uneasy and anxious, and some of Tucker's resolve broke. He ventured an upward glance. "Hi," he said, watching the play of Dash's expressions from just under the upper rim of his glasses, drawn in by the rare display of hesitancy in a boy usually so confident. "What's up?"

Dash appeared to debate. Of course there were a hundred ways to start the conversation, each as obvious as the next: _Where have you been? Why won't you answer my calls? Are you still mad?_ Or, the other approach: _I'm sorry; It wasn't my fault; I won't do it again; Can you forgive me?_—but he didn't start with any of those.

"I didn't, umm…see you here," he said instead. "How long…?"

Tucker watched him frown, shift his weight and adjust his hold on the skates over his shoulder; he returned his gaze to Dash's jacket collar. "Not long," he answered, and then, hating the silence that followed more than the prospect of speaking up again, he added, "Just a few minutes, really. I saw you guys skating...didn't know it was you, but I suppose I should have guessed." He glanced over, behind Dash's back to where Valerie and Fourth Place—some other girl he didn't recognize—were still talking, and it looked like Kwan was through skating too. "I noticed you didn't let the break stop you from exercising your physical prowess over the weaker links in the social ladder."

"Hey, I…" Dash blushed, "…we…it's not like any of 'em got _hurt_," he said. "We were only messing around…" Tucker shrugged, opting not to comment, and Dash took his silence as a chance to wisely change the topic. "What are you doing here anyway? You're not…by yourself, are you?"

Tucker looked up again. "Huh? No," He shook his head, "not alone. Sam thought it would be cool watch the lighting of the Christmas tree, but I didn't feel like wandering around anymore, so…just waiting, for now."

"So…you're here with her?" Dash asked.

Tucker blinked. "Well, her and Danny," he said, "and actually, Danny's parents overheard the idea and thought it sounded cool so they wanted to come too, and then because we were all going and it's Christmas, they decided to invite mine and Sam's parents…but, well, Sam's parents couldn't come, so…"

Dash took a moment to process it all. "Right, ok, so…it's you…and the…umm…Manson chick…and your parents, and the Fentons?" he asked.

Tucker nodded.

"But," Dash made a passing inspection of the surrounding area, "they're not…"

"Danny and Sam are checking out a bake sale. The 'rents got distracted early," Tucker explained. "I think Ja—err…Danny's dad started talking with security about issues with having so many people gathered together in one open place with no ghost protection or something…and…I got no clue where mine went off to, they might have just hung around with Danny's parents."

"Ah," said Dash, "cool…" and Tucker guessed that was probably just filler since none of what he said seemed particularly 'cool' in any sense of the word, but then another silence stretched between them and he didn't care what was cool as long as one of them said something. "So," Dash obliged his silent wish, "…how's your, umm…break been going?"

Tucker glanced to Dash's foot—busily toeing a small pit into a thinner patch of snow—and when two shoots of grass poked through, he frowned thoughtfully.

'_Well, let's see_,' he mused, '_I spend about half the time trying not to think about you, and the other half thinking about you anyway…I can't look at a patch of blue sky without wondering if you're having even half as much trouble as I am before I remember that you_ pulverized _my best friend, and then I_-'

Tucker pulled his eyes off Dash's shoes and glanced to the left, distracting himself by watching a little girl some ways away run squealing and giggling away from her mother, large candy cane in hand and pigtails bobbing.

"It's been…ok, I guess," he said eventually. '_W__here 'ok' in this case means 'mediocre, verging on completely boring, frustrating, and pathetic,'_ the more morose portion of his mind added sullenly. He frowned. _God_, that sounded emo. He stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets, focusing on _not_ scowling. The _last_ thing he needed was to go all inner-self depressive. "You?" he asked trying to keep the conversation going at the least.

Dash glanced up, as if surprised to be asked. "Oh, it's umm…it's been…err…ok too, I guess," sounding about as enthusiastic about it as Tucker, and Tucker opened his mouth to make some comment to that effect when—

"_There's_ a kiddo!" interrupted a powerful voice from so close behind him, Tucker almost jumped, and they both turned to face—Jack, grinning from ear to ear. Maddy followed up right behind him, also smiling.

"Hello, Tucker," she greeted, her eyes sweeping the area before she asked with a small frown, "Have you seen Danny and Sam recently?"

Tucker pointed. "Bake sale that way last I saw," he said, willing them to calmly move on, and then maybe he could just—

"Oh, _there_ you are, darling."

—or perhaps not, thought Tucker, working hard not to wince at his mother's voice. At least the Fentons were moving away. "Oh, hey, Mom…"

She smiled, approaching with his father at her side—apparently all the parents had been together after all. "You kids all ran off so quickly, left us in the dust," she said, stepping in and catching his hand, pulling his glove on tighter before moving to his scarf and attempting to re-wrap it better despite several wordless protests. "Had your father and I a bit worried…" She frowned. "Honey, are you warm enough? These gloves are a bit thi-"

"Fine," Tucker nearly squeaked, cheeks burning as he tried futilely to back out of his mother's—err—mothering, and _finally_, she noticed Dash—who, for the record, looked so terribly amused Tucker suddenly hoped Danny had socked him really _hard_.

"Oh, hello, there," his mother greeted, oblivious of his mental cursing and temporarily pausing her onslaught, to Tucker's immense relief, as she turned to Dash.

"Evening, ma'am," said Dash, dipping his head and flashing a smile, charm coming on like a faucet, and—Tucker resisted the urge to roll his eyes—of _course_ Dash would be good with parents. It just _figured_.

"Well, Tucker," His mother looked back at him expectantly, "aren't you going to introduce us?" she asked, and Tucker blinked.

Oh, right.

His eyes flicked between his mom and dad, and then to Dash. Great, he thought, wasn't the 'meet the parents' portion supposed to be a significantly _advanced_ step in a relationship?

Aloud he said, "Umm…sure, ok," and cleared his throat. "Mom, Dad…this is Dash. Dash, these are my parents." Dash stretched out a hand, catching his father by surprise at first, and then earning a wholly pleased smile and a hearty return shake. "Dash is my…" _unofficial, semi-ex-boyfriend whom I never actually dated but came pretty damn close and am now unsuccessfully avoiding at all costs,_ Tucker frowned, "…err…well, he's the guy I've been tutoring for physics, anyway," he explained, and his mother looked surprised.

"Oh, I thought you were tutoring a…" About there, she obviously rethought her words. "Well, never mind, I suppose," she said, brushing off her own comment. "I must have just been making assumptions," she apologized and smiled at Dash, but her eyes moved quickly back to Tucker afterwards, looking curiously inquisitive.

Tucker decided to leave deciphering _that_ look for a later date. "We've been working together since almost the start of the school year, so we've gotten to know each other pretty well, I guess…but his main thing's sports. He's captain of the football…_and_ basketball team?"

Dash nodded, accepting Tucker's dad's clap to the shoulder good-naturedly as the man grinned.

"Now _there's_ a man, for you," Tucker's dad stated solidly. "That's what's _healthy_ for a growing boy…gets the blood pumping and adrenaline running…and develops leadership skills too! Always loved sports as a boy…never managed to pass that onto my kids, though. Well, only had one kid…" Tucker looked indignant, "_wonderful_ kid…" He calmed a little, "sharp as a box-cutter…but never much into sports. It's all tech and gizmo these days…" His dad shook his head, "…you'd think sweat and sore muscles were toxic." Tucker folded his arms, and his dad raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't suppose you've picked up any new habits from his company?"

Tucker thought of jerking off in public theatres and dropping his pants in broom closets—glanced to Dash, who winked—and blushed warmly. "Define 'new habit,'" he grunted, and Dash's low chuckle raised a shiver up his spine that had nothing to do with winter weather.

"I never could work up much interest in the football idea," Dash filled in, saving him from further explanation, "but he did say something about learning to ice-skate, and I figured that was the least I could do after all he's helped me with."

"Oh, that's a lovely idea!" his mother jumped in. "I remember the first time Tuckard tried roller-skating, poor thing. Barely five years old, tripped and scuffed his knee once…wouldn't touch the things for _years_. Not to mention he cried for-"

Tucker proceeded to cough up an imaginary lung. "Alright, then," Tucker interceded once she took the hint, "now that everyone's introduced, maybe you guys could just-"

"Hey, Tuck!" Danny bounded in, an interesting brown cinnamon roll looking thing in one hand and a half-eaten, festively colored cupcake in the other. "Here you are. My parents want me to let you know they're over at the tree, and we're about to…" He trailed off, stiffening barely perceptibly, and his eyes flicked from Dash, to Tucker, to Tucker's parents, and then back. "Dash," he greeted finally, barely civil, and the _What the hell are_ you _doing here?_ rang through clear as a bell to Tucker's ears.

Dash grinned—and suddenly Tucker thought of those close ups of sharks' teeth on the Discovery Channel, right before they chomped a minnow. "Hey Fen—ahh—Danny," Dash said, working his lips afterwards as if using the first name left an odd taste in his mouth. "How's your face? I mean…uhh, how're you _feeling_?"

"Fine," Danny bit out, bristling like a wildcat with his hackle's raised, and Tucker wondered which would win in a fair fight—a great white or a saber tooth? After a brief mental snapshot of teeth and blood and patches of flying fur and partially gnawed-off flippers, he swallowed thickly and decided it probably best _not_ to find out.

"_So_, Danny," Tucker cut in anxiously, "you were saying something about your parents wanting us to…?"

"I…huh?" Danny glanced over to him, ending an unofficial contest to see who could will the other to spontaneously combust from staring alone first. "Right, right, yeah…they, umm…want us all to start grouping up. The thing's about to start." He eyed Dash again, and managed to say, "Are _you_ coming?" in a way that sounded distinctly more like "_You're_ not coming, are you?" than anything else.

Dash glanced back to the lake where Kwan, Valerie, and whomever that other girl was still stood patiently, Kwan looking on, and Valerie and the other girl still talking. He shook his head. "Nah, I got…stuff. Valerie's cousin from out-of-state's in town and we were showing her around…turns out she liked skating is all, but I'ma have to go, so, umm…I'll leave y'all to it, but," He turned to Tucker's parents, "it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. and Mrs. Foley. I always enjoy working with your son…and I'm not sure my grades would have survived the past semester without him."

His parents returned the pleasantries, and after a few last words everyone started moving out and away. Just before he got out of range, Dash caught his jacket with a small tug, urging him to linger a second longer as the other's moved ahead—and Tucker complied. When he opened his mouth to question though, Dash stepped in, his hand slipping to Tucker's hip, discretely tucking a folded sheet of paper into his pocket, and holding it still when Tucker reached.

"Not now," he muttered. "Just study that when you get home, alright?"

"What is…" Tucker met Dash's eyes, suddenly abruptly aware of how close they were again and that if his parents chose right that moment to look back this might look a tad suspicious but then he really didn't care because Dash's breath was a gentle roll of misted heat on his lips, tangling indistinguishably with his own in the three inches left between them and—

Tucker nodded, resisting the urge to gulp. "Right, ok, I will," he agreed.

"Good," said Dash, and he lingered a half-second longer—then backed off. "Have a nice night."

"I, umm…" Tucker tried hard not to feel the disappointed lump associated with having Dash's lips _that close_ only to not—he clamped down on the thought, hard—but the disappointment persisted, and he sighed. "You too," he said.

-

Several hours later, Tucker lay back on his bed, eyes shut, fully dressed save for shoes, and thinking, when a gentle knock sounded at his door. He glanced up. "Come in, it's open…" he said, mildly surprised to have a visitor this late—his parents usually went to bed around ten. "Hey, Mom…" he greeted when she entered, "what's up?" but the pleasantry turned almost immediately into a groan when he caught her expression. "Oh, no…"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh no?" she repeated, smiling as Tucker squinted at her warily.

"Yes, 'Oh no,'" he confirmed. "You have one of _those_ looks…" he accused. "It's that parent-only look thing that says 'We're going to have a Talk, whether you like it or not, so buckle up…' and Talks are _never_ good…"

"I see," she humored him, "and what do you think this 'Talk' will be about?"

Tucker snorted. "Heck if I know…" He waited, picking at the corner of his pillow and watching. Then, finally, he sighed. "Ok, so spill, I give. What _is_ it about? It's not about sex, is it, because Dad already hit that one a _long_-"

"That boy today," his mother cut in, and Tucker failed in his effort not to wince. He pulled a pillow over his head instead. "Tucker…"

"Whmmpht?"

"He seemed like a nice young man…polite, friendly…"

Tucker peeked an eye out from under his pillow. "Okay…so what's wrong with 'im? Wha'd'we have ta talk about?"

"We don't _have_ to talk about anything…" his mother answered. "I had just…well, assumed…" She hesitated, "…that you were tutoring a-"

"-girl?" Tucker asked softly, returning his head to beneath the pillow and thus blocking out his mother's expression.

"Yes," she said after a moment. "You've spent a lot of time at this 'tutoring' since the school year began. I had thought you might have…well, as I said earlier, I suppose they were only assumptions…a mother's instinct, or wishful thinking…"

Tucker frowned into his cover. "Wishful for what?" he asked, pulling the pillow back to let his mother see the frown. "Wishing I'd finally find a girlfriend?" The question held more malice than he meant to let on.

Her expression was impossibly gentle. "Wishing you'd find someone special, honey, that's all," she said, and for a fraction of a second Tucker knew she knew—knew about him and Dash and everything, ever—just _knew_. He looked away, cheeks warm. "I just want you to remember that your Daddy and I are here for you, no matter what, and we love you, and if you ever need to talk to us about _any_thing…"

Tucker shut his eyes, throat suddenly tight, and he wanted to shout _I'm not gay_ almost as much as he needed to whisper _Wait, don't leave…_ when her hand touched the door, and the words _He's not my boyfriend_ came just as close to the tip of his tongue as _I just don't know what to_ do _anymore_—but he swallowed the lump and the words and nodded instead. "Ok."

She sighed. "Alright…g'night, baby."

"'Night, Mom," he mumbled.

"I love you."

"I love you, too…" And he waited for the soft 'click' of the door before rolling, stomach down, burying his face in the pillow and—something crinkled in his pocket—he frowned. '_What on earth…?_' Flipping back over, he dug curiously in his pocket, quickly locating the culprit, and—oh, _right_—his cheeks warmed as he tugged out the tucked away sheet of paper, Dash's 'study assignment' for the night.

Not trusting his eyes to read well in the dim light, Tucker sighed and leaned closer to his nightstand, propping his elbows against the dresser top and undoing the folded note under the lamplight, squinting to read Dash's neat scroll. It contained only two, short sentences:

_I'm sorry. Forgive me?_

**A/N:** Okay! So, this chapter went under heavy, heavy debate in my mind. So much so that there is actually an, erm, "alternate version" to this chapter (in which Danny goes off and rails on Dash about everything he said about Tucker and eventually points out that he has some of it recorded), buuttttt…this _was_ actually the original version of the chapter, and while the other one has some aspects that I might have liked to have…I don't know. I decided to let Danny go easy on both of them and let the issue slip for now. The end result over the span of the next few chapters is basically the same anyway; the other version's in-between is just a little more angsty. :P ANYway…

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! YYWKMN, uknown20troper, Momokitty, inkfriends, CieloCrimisi, Xx supersweetsealedwithakiss xX, pixiegirl100, and The Midnight Phantomess, you guys all rock. I think since you all logged in I got a chance to respond to everyone this time; the reviews are MUCH appreciated.

The special thing about this week? Spring break has (finally) arrived! So, I hope, hope, hope I can stay inspired and make some serious progress; this story is seriously so close to being totally caught up, and I don't want to quit updating at least every other week…it affects my interest too. (I.e.: I like to hear from you guys to keep me going, and whenever I update really, really slow, I have to just snail-crawl my way through the middle. -sigh-) But yeah. I've had a majorly majorly busy past couple weeks with mid-terms and essays and…hopefully I can kick back a bit this week. :) Wow, long A/N, sorry all. D: Thanks for reading and hope life is good wherever y'all are. ^_^


	15. Magnetism

**Chapter Fifteen:**

Magnetism

"So, you're whipped," Kwan concluded — and immediately doubled over with a pained grunt at the force of Dash's next toss, football burying itself in his gut.

"_No_," Dash growled, "I'm just…" He frowned. "Whatever, it's complicated."

Kwan huffed, catching his breath before hiking the ball up. "You like him, right?" he asked, tossing, and Dash caught it smoothly.

"Well, yeah," he said.

"And you've been seeing him for…how many months?" Kwan caught Dash's return toss.

"Err…" Dash tried to think back, mentally tallying up the weeks in backwards succession. Somewhere around five, he gave up. "Man, hell if I know…too much math. Almost a semester, I guess."

"But you haven't fucked him," stated Kwan, and Dash fumbled his catch, almost dropping it.

"Hey, now wait," he objected, "it's not my fault he's not ready for-"

"You broke up with your _cheerleader_ girlfriend…"

"Dude, she was drunk off her ass _and_ slobbering all over Marcus's dick…in _my_ bedroom! What the hell was I supposed to do? Close the door, walk back out like nothing ever happened and go-"

"-fuck someone else? Sure," said Kwan. "It's not like you've never done it before…but this time… Man, you didn't fuck _any_one at that party, did you?"

Dash kept silent, rubbing a hand behind his neck and studying the football quizzically.

"Dash, seriously…do you even _remember_ the last time you got laid?"

"Hey, _yes_," Dash snapped. "Of course I do, it was, umm…" He frowned, "…that time…a while back…at that thing…the uhh…" Kwan looked unimpressed, "…the bonfire!" he said. "That was it. That beach thing, yeah."

"The…huh?" It took Kwan a moment to remember. "Oh! The…_oh_…holy shit, dude, no wonder you've got your panties in a—_owww_, shit…Jesus, watch how you throw that thing, will you?" Kwan coughed, wincing and looking uncertain as to whether or not to risk returning the ball to Dash at all.

Dash snorted. "Whatever," he grunted. "Just 'cause I haven't gotten laid in…" He trailed off, scowl deepening the more he thought on it. Eventually, he folded his arms. "Man, can you even _get_ whipped over a guy?"

Kwan looked tempted to roll his eyes. "Uh…_duh_?" he responded, obviously still slightly piqued about having been the victim of not one, but two retaliatory gut-shots. "Whipped is like…a state of being, dude…totally not gender related…and anyway, saying you couldn't get whipped over a guy would be like saying you couldn't fall in love with a guy, and-"

"Hey, wait, I am _not_ in love with him," Dash cut in sharply—and something about Kwan's look was deeply unsettling. "What? I'm _not_," he insisted, and something told him Kwan's acquiescent shrug might have been significantly more satisfying if he hadn't looked so annoyingly unconvinced when he did it.

"Ok, whatever, man…didn't say you were," Kwan conceded, and, apparently deciding it wasn't worth it to risk being the target of another angry outburst, he tucked the football under his arm, eyeing Dash thoughtfully instead. "So, you're not even…'dating' him, then, huh?"

Dash grumbled something vague and barely intelligible, then kicked dully at the grass. "So?"

"You don't think might be, like…a good first step…?" Kwan ventured.

Dash immediately fixed him with a that-is-the-stupidest-idea-I-have-_ever_-heard stare and shook his head sharply. "No, man, you don't get it…he is _pissed_ at me right now, okay? It's like…how was I supposed to know beating up a guy's best friend is like running over a girl's puppy? But it _is_…and it's like…he won't even…I can't…no," He shook his head again, "just no. Anyway, at least not…not right now."

"Ah," said Kwan, "But…you've at least…called him, right?"

"I've called him fuck knows _how_ many times," Dash half growled, "but he never picks up. He ignores it when I text, never responds back, and I've tried apologizing but it's near fucking impossible when he's not even _listening_, and I can't…it's just…" Dash shut his eyes, shoving a hand back through his hair and squeezing—then releasing a held breath in a rush. "It's just…frustrating," he admitted, softer, "and now…I don't even know what else I'm supposed to do anymore, you know?"

Kwan frowned thoughtfully. "Well…it seemed like he, umm…let you talk to him the other day alright, right?"

Dash opened an eye. "Yeah…"

"So, he's probably not totally off of you, it's just, you know…a matter of getting him un-pissed. Like you said…think of it like you ran over his puppy," reasoned Kwan. "What do you do when you run over your girlfriend's puppy?"

"Uhh…" Dash blinked, tilted his head back and squinted up to the sky. "Pshh, heck if I know…girls _never_ get over that kind of thing…buy her a new one? Or some flowers… Cook her dinner, give her a foot massage…watch as many chick flicks with her as she wants…" Kwan snickered, and Dash looked down. "What?"

"Does he like chick flicks as much as you?"

Dash narrowed his eyes. "You're lucky you still have that ball…"

Kwan flashed a grin. "Yeah, I know…that's why I kept it."

"Hnph," Dash snorted, lacing his fingers behind his head. After a moment he shook his head. "No, actually," he said, "he doesn't…" and at Kwan's look added, "…like chick flicks, that is. Probably safer to go with the flowers…what?" Kwan shook his head. "_What_?" Dash insisted, and his friend smirked, mouthing _whipped_ and just barely escaping Dash's subsequent swing at his shoulder. "Ass," Dash grumbled.

"Hey," Kwan put his hands up, "I think I'm taking this pretty cool, all things considered…I mean, it's not every day a guy finds out his best friend is like…a flamer with his heart set on some weird, geeky-"

"Hey, hey, no, no, _not_ a flamer," Dash stressed, "…flamer is like…twenty piercings, tight pink glitter shirts and rainbow shit…with like…sausage-fest orgies in gay clubs and stuff…" He shook his head, "_not_ going there," and Kwan looked slightly green. "Besides," Dash ignored Kwan's nauseous look, "I thought you said you guessed a while ago?"

"Uhh…" Kwan swallowed, shaking his head—probably to clear the images. "Well, I mean yeah…you watch the romance channel and collect stuffed bears, dude…that's like…gotta mean _some_thing, right?"

Dash looked skeptical. "Not necessarily, but whatever…you are right," he admitted after a bit. "You're taking this really well. I guess I never…well," He looked down, hating the heat in his cheeks and hoping Kwan wasn't looking too closely, "just thanks, I guess."

Kwan shrugged. "No sweat…what are friends for, right?" he said, smiling when Dash stole a glance up. "I mean, as long as you don't go off and kiss _me_ again…why should I care who you do?"

Dash snorted. "Yeah, right…no need to worry there. I think the chances of me ever kissing _you_ are like-" It took until that moment for the full content of Kwan's statement to sink in. "Wait…" He turned a sharp, accusing eye on Kwan. "Did you say '_again?_'"

"Uhh," Kwan cleared his throat, "did I? You know, I think maybe I should head home. It's getting a bit cold outside and-"

"When did I ever kiss _you_?" Dash demanded, and at least Kwan had the shame to blush.

"It was only once!" he defended desperately, "And a long time ago at that…I figured you might not have remembered, but it was, you know, the first time I really started seriously wondering about your sexuality, that's all-"

"And you never decided to _tell_ me?"

"It's not like it just randomly comes up in conversation!" Kwan nearly squeaked, backing up because Dash was advancing. "'Oh, yeah, dude, remember that time you got totally smashed and put your tongue down my throat? No? Oh, sorry I brought it up then, anyway, how's the game looking?'"

"So I was drunk…" said Dash, pausing, and Kwan nodded, swallowing.

"Yeah, man…off your ass, and then you never mentioned it later and didn't even act weird or awkward or anything and you _did_ date plenty of girls so I just, you know, kina shrugged it off, but, I mean…you can't get mad at _me_, ok? _I_ didn't kiss you, and I didn't figure you'd want me to bring it up if you never did…like, _especially_ if it didn't turn out that you really were…err…you know…into, um…swinging that way…or whatever…"

Dash regarded his friend — ball still tucked under one arm, cheeks pink, and apparently uncertain whether to look more guilty or embarrassed. Finally, snorting dismissively, he rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and then fixed his friend with smirk. "So," he asked, abruptly changing the pace, "how was it?"

Kwan gawked. "I…it…" His face screwed up in a grimace, "…_eww_, dude…no. I'm straight and you were _hammered_, ok?" he insisted, trying to keep a straight face despite Dash's laughter. "It was wet and pushy and tasted like Budweiser…and you…it was…" The laughter died to snickering, and Kwan glared. "Whatever, you can laugh…just, no repeat experiences, deal?"

Dash grinned. "Deal. So, you, uh…gonna pass the ball back or what?"

Kwan snorted. "You gonna buy that kid some flowers?"

Dash groaned. "But-"

"Look, the whole rejected and depressed thing _really_ doesn't suit you," Kwan stated, point blank, "and pretty soon, it's not gonna be just me that's noticing it. Now, if you just wanna get straight up _laid_, I'm pretty sure Richie's gay too, so-"

"No, no, no," Dash shook his head, "that's…no. It's not…I don't…eh." He grimaced. "It's not that. I can wait for the sex, really." Kwan gave him a Look which he promptly ignored. "It's just…he's _not_ a girl, you know? And flowers are like…well…I mean, _really_ girly…all I'm saying is…don't you think…I mean are you sure he wouldn't take it the wrong way? Plus…how am I supposed to get them to him if he's not letting me get anywhere near him? It's not like I can just chase him around the school…so, what? Walk up to his locker and tie roses on it…? That just doesn't…it sounds lame…"

Kwan wasn't buying it. "Yeah, ok," he said, "so, _one_…you totally need to get him flowers. Anyone who's worth putting off sex for is worth flowers. Two…yeah, uh, _duh_, I know he's not a girl…but think of it this way…would you really have minded if one of your girlfriends had ever just randomly given _you_ flowers? Sure, they almost never do…but that doesn't mean it can't be a cool gesture coming from either side…even if they are girly, so no, I don't think he'll take them the wrong way, and _three_…umm…what was the third thing you said?"

"Uhh…I can't chase him around the school?"

"Oh, yeah, right," said Kwan, "and you can't just tie them to his locker like you said 'cause…why?"

Dash scoffed. "Oh, I don't know…maybe 'cause it's _gay_? 'Dash Baxter, Outed Fag of Casper High Courts Tucker Foley in Hallway'…I'm sure that'd go over _great_."

"Ah…so you're not ready for anyone to know yet."

"I'm…" Dash paused, thoughtful, "…actually, you know at this point…I really don't give a shit. Yeah, sure, it'd be easier if no one knew…at least through the rest of basketball season, and I'd really rather not have my parents find out…at least until after I'm out of their house and preferably until they're done giving me money, but…more than that, I don't know how _he_ feels about it…"

"Uhh…huh?" said Kwan.

"Look, at first, he'd say he didn't date guys…so, you know…I kina got the impression it was at least a partial secret…and yeah, he doesn't seem to think much one way or the other about it…certainly wasn't worried like I was, but, you know, I still wouldn't wanna just randomly out him to the whole school, but…I guess more important than that…" Dash shuffled a hand through his hair, frowning. "It's just…I know _I_ can take whatever gets thrown at me, ok? Maybe some lame ass gay jokes…jibes, whatever…but fact is, I doubt I'll even get much of that. I'm bigger than most of the guys at our school, and I can handle myself even with the ones who got me beat…but the thing is…if anyone gets _seriously_ pissed about it? I'm guessin' it's not me they'll go after…"

"You think they'd…? Oh…" Comprehension dawned, and Kwan matched Dash's frown. "Yeah, that's…a point…" He eyed his friend curiously. "You've really thought about this haven't you?"

Dash shrugged. "A little."

"Hm…well…get some chick to do it," Kwan suggested.

"Err…what?"

"You know," he continued, gaining confidence as his idea developed, "use your Baxter charm…woo some blushing freshman, make your proposition…"

Dash blinked, then, slowly, started to smirk. "Right, so…pull the 'Hey, baby, what's your name? Ah, yeah, that's nice…here, look, can you do me a _huge_ favor…?'"

Kwan rolled his eyes. "Uh, yeah, something along those lines," he muttered, smiling in spite of himself, "but you know the saddest part is…that would probably actually _work_ just like that…"

"Of course it would," Dash's grin was wicked, "'cause I'm that _good_."

"Yeah, uh-huh…" Kwan shook his head, taking the football out from under his arm and clapping it between his hands, "…now, be useful and back all of your fantastic self up so I can throw this thing to you…"

"Aye-aye, Date Doctor," Dash conceded, still grinning even as he followed through, backing up accordingly.

A week later, the first Wednesday back after break, Dash shared the gym with three others—Kwan, Enrique "Richie," and Marcus—the rest of the team already rushing in typical stampede fashion to the locker room, ready for the usual battle of brawn to determine who got first dibs on ideal shower stalls and hot water.

_Tap, _

_Tap, _

_Tap_…

The clap of the basketball hitting the court floor echoed sharply in the wide, near-empty room, ricocheting off the flat walls and high ceiling.

"Dash!" was his only warning before Kwan passed, and Dash swerved in obligingly.

Eyes on his target, he barely evaded Richie's close block, fingertips just nicking the ball enough to change its momentum, catching it and sending it immediately down into a fast dribble. He moved for the net.

"Marcus! _Hijo de punta_…" Richie's cursing followed close behind him, "he's got-"

Not a second too soon, Dash swept his arms up, passing just out of range of Marcus's reaching fingers and—he held his breath for a half second—landing safely into Kwan's capable hands again. He grinned, breathing again. With another few shuffled steps, he positioned himself close enough to the net for a dunk should Kwan manage to get the ball to him for a clear shot, and _yes_, Kwan avoided Richie, slung the ball up, and—the gym door opened with an echoing clang, drawing Dash's attention in spite of himself—the ball smacked him in the face.

"Aw, _shit_…"

"Fucking hell, what did you _do_ to him?"

"Who shot that?"

"Score!"

"Damn, 'omie, you hit him up _good_…"

"Way to watch the ball, Baxter…"

Dash groaned, blinking dully upwards and bringing a hand to his abused nose. Once his vision cleared, he threw a loaded glare towards Marcus, the last to speak. "Hey, whatever," he growled, "I was…" He made the mistake of looking back towards the door again, where the source of his distraction had one hand over his mouth — probably stifling laugher — and Dash shut his eyes again with another suppressed groan.

So it wasn't an apparition — even _better._

"No, man, seriously," Kwan's voice came in over the throbbing, "you alright? I totally expected you to catch that…what got into y—ohh…" Dash didn't have to open his eyes to know where Kwan was looking. "Well," His friend cleared his throat, "that's probably enough extra practice for now anyway, yeah?" he said, obviously trying to usher the others out as quickly as possible after taking note of Dash's reason for failure. "This leaves the final score at seven to thirteen…" Dash opened his mouth to object to having Richie and Marcus's last shot count, but gave up in light of a particularly stubborn throb across the bridge of his nose, "…and we can pick up from here tomorrow."

"Oh, _sí_," Richie agreed sarcastically, following Kwan towards the door in spite of his objection, "so you two can whip our asses again? No…next time, I say we switch it up…you can take _Señor_ Ball-hog, and _I'll_-"

"'Ey, 'ey, wait, now…who are _you_ calling ball hog, Pretty Richie?" Marcus jumped in. "If your little wandering eyes spent more time on the _ball_, and less time on our esteemed captain's _a_-"

"Hey, now, _watch_ it, 'omie," Richie snapped back. "If-"

"Oh hey-ho, look-it here," Marcus cut him off, attention diverted for the moment. "Looks like we have ourselves a little geek-freak come to join the party…" Still at the far end of the court, Dash frowned uneasily, not particularly liking the undercurrent to Marcus's words. "What brings you to our side of school, pixie stick?" Marcus continued, addressing Tucker directly this time. "Thought you were through callin' dibs on the chief's time after _last_ semester…aren't your little 'study sessions' over yet?"

"They are," Tucker answered flatly, apparently unruffled by either Marcus's looming or his snide tone. He lifted a sheet of paper and a hall pass. "Delivery."

"Hn," Marcus grunted disinterestedly, apparently convinced and looking about ready to turn away when his gaze dipped and landed on—

Well, shit, Dash mentally cursed when he followed Marcus's line of sight.

"Flowers, four-eyes?" Marcus asked, curiosity reborn, and he looked torn between laughter and a sneer. "Where did _these_ come from? Don't tell me you actually found a serious _lady_ friend…"

Tucker jerked back when Marcus reached for the spoken of flora, scowling and taking a step away, out of grabbing range. "Don't you have some place to be?" he countered, ignoring the question entirely, and Marcus took a step in.

"Why?" he taunted, similarly ignoring Kwan's muttered suggestion to just leave it be and get moving. "Not enjoying my company, geek-freak? Or maybe you'd rather have some alone time with-"

"Marcus," Dash grunted sharply, cutting the other off, and Marcus's head jerked up, surprised. "Lay off," Dash ordered, and at first, Marcus looked fully ready to argue, glaring and opening his mouth for a retort, but, after a brief pause, he apparently changed his mind. Grousing unintelligibly, he shrugged it off, shaking his head.

"Whatever, then, man…_you_ deal with him," he grumbled, and a moment later he followed Kwan and Richie out, muttering some last comment about flowers and geek fags before his voice faded out of hearing distance.

When the door clicked shut, finalizing their privacy, Tucker tilted his head. "You know…" he began at last, "you didn't have t-"

"I know," said Dash, and he let his eyes drift over his visitor more speculatively: paper and hall pass still hanging loosely from one hand, backpack slung over a shoulder and three roses tucked neatly into an open outside pocket. He was wearing those lame-ass, several-sizes-too-big army green cargos again, but no hat, and Dash wondered if Tucker had just skipped haircuts altogether this year, because he certainly didn't remember those braids reaching past his shoulders before—at least not in the beginning. All through the inspection, Tucker surprised him by not fidgeting, holding still and waiting wordlessly instead until Dash finished, lifting his gaze once more.

"So…" said Dash.

"So?" repeated Tucker.

"You…have something for me?" Dash asked.

"I…" Tucker blinked. "Oh, right," He shook his head, as if the supposed reason for him showing up in the first place had slipped his mind completely, "here…" He held out the slip of paper previously resting on top of his hall pass. "Not sure what it is, didn't look, but…something from Ms. Watson, anyway."

"Ah," Dash accepted the sheet without a spare glance, "thanks…" he mumbled, more focused on the brush of their fingers during the exchange and noting with some satisfaction that Tucker didn't rush to withdraw any more than he did. "So that's…_not_ why you came?" he asked.

"Oh, no, it was…" said Tucker, making no move to depart.

"I see." Dash waited. Tucker stayed silent. "That's all, then?"

"You…" Tucker hesitated, eyeing him with a strange, unreadable expression. "You tied _roses_ to my locker…"

Oh, so they were on to _that_ then.

Dash weighed his options. Eventually, he replied, "I haven't touched your locker in months," and it _was_ the truth—technically. He loved the way heat darkened Tucker's cheeks — turning a soft, toffee brown into a rich, smooth chocolate.

"Ok," Tucker amended stubbornly, "so you got someone _else_ to tie roses to my locker…"

"Mm…" Dash pretended to consider the statement, "…and what makes you sure it was me?" he asked. "Maybe someone has a crush on you, Foley…you could have a secret admirer…" He watched with growing amusement as Tucker narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth, faltered, and then finally pursed his lips with a half-assed glower. "Hey, it could happen," Dash asserted, "Stranger shit has gone on…" and Tucker rolled his eyes.

"Uh, yeah, right," he agreed, words dripping with sarcasm. "Last I checked, girls don't randomly leave flowers attached to the lockers of total strangers on a daily basis…or did I miss the memo where short and nerdy became the new hot and popular and freshman chicks now totally dig the four-eyes and tech lore gig?"

Dash shrugged. "Never know…" He watched Tucker lean his weight against the wall, a I-totally-don't-believe-a-word-you're-saying-but-I'll-listen-silently-for-now-anyway expression solidly in place, "…but whatever it is…you have to admit _some_one seems pretty set on you…" and the patiently-waiting-out-the-bullshit look vanished.

"Dash-"

"Look," Dash cut him off and took a breath, gathering his nerve, "if all you came here for was to give me this note…fine. Just _tell_ me to piss off…and if that's what you want…I will, ok? But if you _don't_…" He planted a hand to the side of Tucker's head and watched him draw a small, quick breath, shoulder's tensing up like a cornered kicker pinned in by a looming linebacker after a missed field goal, and he smiled wryly. "…I'm not gonna quit, you know…I'll keep coming, and coming, and coming, until at _some_ point…"

Tucker's brow furrowed, but not in anger — more a befuddled, seeking curiosity — and his eyes were large and searching behind his glasses. "You're…serious," he realized aloud, and Dash resisted the urge to throw his arms skyward.

"'_Course_ I'm serious! Haven't I made it _obvious_ that I'm serious yet? I-"

"But…" Tucker shook his head, confusion marring his features, "I've been such an _asshole_…" he insisted, and Dash's frustration evaporated, eclipsed by surprise. "I've ignored all your calls, I haven't returned a single text, I've avoided you at school…I've done _everything_ that's supposed to make you just give up, ignore me, and start pretending I don't exist, so…why haven't you? Why do you…why are you still _bothering_ with me? I mean, I'm…I'm not…"

"Is that what you want?" Dash asked, ignoring the latter questions. "For me to pretend you don't exist?"

"I…well…it's just…" Tucker blundered, stalling up, and Dash watched green eyes divert, twitching away to observe the distant stands, heat radiating from his cheeks. "That's… not the point," he mumbled at last, barely audible. "After a certain point you're supposed to…to just…"

"No…" Dash cut in patiently. "I think maybe that is the point, like…_the_ point," he said, and Tucker glanced back, wary. "Look…there are plenty of people out there chasin' someone who's makin' it pretty clear they _aren't_ interested, okay? And when shit goes down, problems come up and people have misunderstandings, but if there's a rule for holding on to relationships…you don't _quit_ when someone doesn't answer your calls…heck, sometimes you don't quit when they _do_ answer and they curse at you and tell you to back the fuck off, 'cause…well…" Dash felt himself blush. "I just mean, if it's a girl, sometimes that's like…their secret code language for 'keep chasing me a few more days to prove you _care_' or something…which is annoying as hell 'cause it's confusing, but whatever, since…well, you…" Dash hesitated. "_You_ still haven't told me to fuck off even once yet…"

"I…well, yeah, but…" Dash _felt_ the heat from Tucker's cheeks, read the uncertainty in his eyes, and waited as he shook his head. "So what you're saying is…not only do I fail epically at ever getting into a proper relationship with you when it actually made _sense_…but I also fail at breaking _up_ with you?" he reiterated.

After considering a moment, Dash shrugged. "Well, yeah, I guess," he said, "if that's what you're trying to do…but I mean, you really _can't_ break up with me, even if you did say so straight up…"

"Hey, I-"

"'Cause that's a two step process," he asserted, cutting off Tucker's objection at the root, and Tucker frowned. "First…" Dash held up a finger, "…you start dating someone…and _then_," He lifted a second, "you can break up with them, but…" He dropped his hand with a defeated shrug, "…you never agreed to go out with me in the first place, so…"

"You never asked!" Tucker cut in, exasperated, and Dash raised an eyebrow.

"Well I could fix _that_ if you want…" he said, and for a good two to three full seconds, Tucker remained impressively silent.

Then, "B-but, no, that's…I wasn't…that's not…" everything came in a fumbled rush, Tucker's face warm as a space heater as he tripped over his own tumbling words. "You weren't…I mean…are you asking…?" he asked, and Dash eyed him carefully, taking his time to consider.

At last, he shook his head. "No," he answered, speaking slowly and finding that picking and choosing his words felt something like trying to find a safe path from the fifty yard line to the end zone with the entire opposing defense team in between, "I wasn't, but…" He took a breath. '_Why the hell not?'_ he thought, and reached down, catching Tucker's hand with his free one and clasping, gently, barely daring to twine their fingers, "…I _was_ kina thinking about it…" he admitted, and when Tucker's shuddered exhale rippled across his cheek, his fingers twitching just the tiniest bit tighter into his grasp, it sent shivers from the palm of his hand to the soles of his feet and back up, and he came to a stark realization: they had never held hands before. Swallowing his sudden bout of nerves, he returned the squeeze. "So, how about it," he asked, "be my boyfriend?"

* * *

**A/N:** Oh holy hell, is this an update? Erm, yes, actually, it is. Which is kind of amazing for two reasons: a.) I have practically no internet here (Hang'zhou, China, if you'd really like to know), and b.) I umm, yeah, haven't updated in a couple months? D: But, because of aformentioned internet access, I obviously can't play any addicting MMORPGs, sooooo...I've been dabbling with my writing again. Unfortunately, it takes anywhere from five to fifteen minutes for any single webpage to load, and sometimes it doesn't even load at that, so while I'd love to try and respond to the piles of mail I've gotten since the last time I checked my mail which was...also several months ago...it'll probably be a while / possibly not until I get back to the states. I appologize now to all who thought I've died and to those who I was talking to and then suddenly up and disappeared on. I just do that; it was nothing personal and I still have no promises as to when this will be updated, but I figured since I was writing again...I might as well stick it up here and let y'all know I still exist.

**If you're still reading this**, _please_ let me know. I'd like to know I still have an audience if I'm gonna keep pouring more hours into this. :)


	16. External Factors

**A/N: **Things possibly of note: this thing (chapter, whatever) has _not_ been beta'd (at least not in its entirety) - yet. I'm posting because I took on a beta for selfish reasons (to better my writing), and not, necessarily, to make sure that every chapter was perfect (which is impossible anyway) before it got to you (the reader/s). I'm also posting because I am ridiculously and inexcusably impatient, but I refuse to badger someone who's doing me a free service for these reasons (and I'm also, believe it or not, somewhat shy; or so I've been told).

Oh, and you guys have given me 100 reviews, officially, as of yesterday (I think it was yesterday), which deserves something, right? That said...well, actually, I think that's all that needs saying before the (longest) chapter (in the story so far) gets started. :)

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen:**

External Factors

_CRASH! _

The clattering boom, not ten feet from them, followed immediately by a stifled yelp, muffled and barely audible under the bumping and thumping of countless flying sports balls, sent Dash and Tucker jerking apart faster than homogeneously polarized magnets, and immediately, Tucker spun, just catching sight of wide, rightly panicked glowing green eyes a moment before Danny fizzled out of sight completely once again. Danny's name was a curse on his lips.

If Dash said anything in the few seconds that followed, Tucker didn't hear them, too busy storming to the gym door – Danny's most probable line of escape – and slinging it open, reaching blindly about for any sign of material existence until-

Danny made a sharp, startled noise when Tucker found purchase in his t-shirt, gripping tight at the first sign of solidity and swinging his weight around a moment later, forcing Danny hard to the wall almost before he even made it fully back into visibility.

"_What_," Tucker hissed, "the _hell_-"

"Tucker," Danny near squeaked, "I swear I can explain…"

_**Earlier…**_

"…and as you should all recall from chapter three, both DNA and RNA are nucleic acids, each consisting of long chains of polymers, which…"

Danny's eyes flicked to the clock.

_3:13p.m._

Scowling, he forced his eyes back to his notebook, pen tapping listlessly against the still-blank page.

Where the heck _was_ he? He should have been back by now.

No, '_focus_,' Danny mentally scolded himself. This was _not_ a big deal. He probably went to the bathroom, or got…lost…

…or started making out with Dash in the gym-

'-_and what business of _mine_ is it even if that _is_ what he's doing?'_ a colder, more rational part of him snapped back.

With more effort than it should have taken, Danny stilled his pen, shutting his eyes and taking a breath.

"…while here, the sample polynucleotide chain shows just one of many different possible arrangements of…"

'_Five more minutes,'_ Danny reasoned. '_Just wait five more minutes…'_

He glanced to the clock.

_3:14p.m._

'_Well, fu_-'

"…you, Danny?"

Danny's head snapped forward. The teacher raised her eyebrows expectantly, and he swallowed.

"Oh, uhh, right. It's, uhhmmm…"

Stalling on the last syllable for as long as possible, he tossed a fleeting, panicked glance in Sam's direction, and she rolled her eyes. Then, one second before he gave in and asked for a repeat of the question, Sam lifted four fingers, just below her desk and out of the teacher's line of sight. Danny's brow furrowed.

"…mmm-err…four?" he ventured with a half-smile.

By some miracle, the teacher beamed. "That's right, Danny. There are four different types of nucleotides that make up DNA. Now-" When Danny's hand shot up, she trailed off, frowning. "Ah…yes, Danny?"

"Sorry, Ms. Watson," he apologized, "but could I be excused, please?"

A pause.

"Mr. Fenton," she addressed him firmly, "you've spent the last ten minutes with your eyes glued to that clock."

'_Ten?'_ he thought. _'Was that all?'_ It felt more like an hour.

"Somehow I find it difficult to believe that you aren't fully aware of how close this class is to being dismissed…" He said nothing, holding his breath; she eyed him sceptically. "You're certain that this can't wait five more minutes?"

He put on his best 'desperate, sad puppy' look – repeating a silent, pleading mantra – and almost whooped when she heaved a concessional sigh. By the time she started lecturing him about seeing to it that he made it back before school dismissed, he was already halfway out the door, hall pass in hand, his nods little more than a trained response to stimuli. When she stopped talking, he clicked the door shut behind him, looked both ways, and grinned, disappearing into thin air.

Hall passes were _so_ overrated.

A minute later, he hovered before the gym door, suddenly indecisive. What if Phys Ed had already let out to the showers? Would Tucker be in the gym, or the locker rooms? And-

"…just to…with me, is it?"

The fragment of conversation filtered out through the closed gym doors, distorted by echoes, the metal barrier, and sounds down the hall, but Danny's doubts evaporated nonetheless: Tucker.

"Uhh…_huh?_" Danny identified the second voice just as effortlessly, and mentally rolled his eyes: Dash. "No! Or at least…I mean…"

He missed the next snippet of conversation, phasing through the wall and joining them in the gym; empty, he noted, save for them. Everyone probably _had_ left for the showers. He grimaced; how convenient.

"…'cause I _like_ you, ok?" Dash ground out, drawing Danny's attention back to the immediate drama. "It's 'cause I really…really like you and…and I'm…_tired_…tired of bullshitting around…tired of pretending and…just…" Dash took a breath. "I want…whatever the hell…_this_…is…" For the first time, Danny noticed Dash's hand in Tucker's, and his stomach gave a boding lurch. What had he slipped into the middle of? "I want it to finally _count_ for something…you know? Isn't…I mean, isn't that why _most_ people…" Dash blushed, a new look, from Danny's perspective, and Tucker appeared to fight a losing battle with a smile.

Eventually, Tucker nodded, conceding, "Yes, I…suppose, but…" Behind the smile, his expression betrayed a mosaic of conflicting emotions – doubt, hope, wariness – and Danny started to take in the finer details: Dash's thumb absently tracing the line of Tucker's hand in his grasp, Tucker's fingers folding tighter into that grasp when he did, the subtler points of body language, and-

Swallowing a sudden, disconcerting rise of bile in his throat, Danny turned sharply away and grimaced. He should have stuck it out in biology. His own fault, he knew; still, plenty of time to back slowly away…

"…about Paulina?" Tucker was asking, and Danny lingered a moment longer, curiosity peaked. "I already said before, if-"

"Broke up with her," Dash cut him off, surprising Danny: Dash had broken up with Paulina for _Tucker?_ "…over the break…and I _have_ apologized for beating up your ex-"

Danny frowned. He was _not_-

"He's _not_-" Tucker mirrored his objection aloud.

"-and I won't ever touch him again, I _promise_," Dash insisted, disregarding the interruption entirely, "…err…unless of course he comes on to you, and then-"

Danny raised an eyebrow, retorting with a mental '_And then…?'_

"Dash-"

"-I might have to rip off his-"

'_Oh _really_ now?'_

"_Dash!_" Tucker snapped.

"_What?_" answered Dash, and for a moment they stood like that, locked in a silent, unspoken battle of wills, neither uttering a word. Soon, though, Dash's shoulders sagged with an acquiescent sigh. "Okay, okay…I just, um…I just meant 'sorry,' is all…you know, for the fight, 'cause I know I get angry too easy, for what I said on that thing – 'cause I meant it to piss off Fenton, not you – for not keeping calling _all_ break 'cause I should have, and…"

'_Wait_,' Danny backtracked. ''_That' thing…?_' Surely he wasn't talking about… '_Oh, that's _perfect_, Dash,' _he thought, remembering just in time not to laugh. '_I couldn't have fucked you up better myself… Now all you have to do is _catch it_, Tucker…were you paying attention?'_

"…and for-"

"Wait," Tucker cut in, looking puzzled, and Danny's grin could've freaked the Joker. "What 'thing?'"

"Uhh…" Dash frowned. "What?"

"You apologized for some stuff you said on some 'thing,'" repeated Tucker. "What 'thing?'"

"The recording thing," said Dash, arms flapping about in humorous likeness to a startled park pigeon – or perhaps just exaggerated sign language – as if histrionic hand motions might somehow help to convey his point. "The one Fenton got on his pho-" Danny watched the comprehension dawn, observing with spectator's glee as the rest of the word 'phone' disintegrated into something of a retreating "_Oh_," in a voice uncharacteristically small for the charismatic jock.

Tucker tilted his head, the only one out of the loop. "Recording?"

"He, umm…he didn't…show you…?" Dash blundered, blushing, and shook his head. "Never, uhh…never mind, then. It wasn't, uhh…it's not important. I just thought, err…my bad. Can we move on?" he entreated hopefully.

To Danny's extreme satisfaction, however, Tucker folded his arms, and Dash's countenance drooped.

"But-"

"Look," reasoned Tucker, stoic in the face of Dash's pout, "either _you_ can tell me what this is about now and have me hear it from your side…" Here Tucker paused, leaving Dash hanging for a moment, and Danny _almost_ felt bad for the guy; almost, "…or I can go ask Danny about it later…and I'm sure he'd be happy to tell me _exactly_ what you 'meant' by whatever it was you sai-"

"Okay, okay! No, I don't, uumm…" Dash fidgeted awkwardly. "What I mean is…it was before we really…you know, hit each other or whatever, and uh…I was trying to piss him off so I…I sorta…said some stuff about you…"

Tucker waited patiently; Dash swallowed, and Danny just kept on smirking. This was _totally_ worth ditching Bio.

"Okay…?" Tucker prompted after a long moment. "Such as…?"

"Such as…" Dash shook his head. "But I didn't _mean_ any of it, okay? I just…_I told him you were agoodcocksucker okay__?_" he admitted in a rush. "And I…I kina…thanked him for it…for, err…for teaching you, but-"

"Wait," Tucker stopped him early, looking incredulous. "Say that again?"

"I said…" Dash repeated slower, visibly gathering his nerve, "…that you were really good at sucking cock…"

Tucker waited. When it was clear that there was nothing more coming, he blinked. "And that's…it?" he asked.

"Err…" Dash frowned. "Yes?"

"I see," said Tucker, looking neither upset nor disturbed, merely…thoughtful? "But you didn't mean it, you say?"

"No," Dash insisted earnestly, leaping at the opportunity to defend himself, "I-"

"So you think my fellatio skills could use some work?"

"…" Dash blinked, silent.

'…' Danny stared, dumbfounded.

"B…uhh…" Amazingly, Dash looked almost as floored as Danny felt, if that were possible. "Y…err…_what?_"

"Because, you know, _last_ time…" Tucker continued, nonchalant, "…I'd say you seemed pretty satisfied with my efforts. So, you understand, I'm a little confused…"

Danny's cheeks burned. This was decidedly _not_ where that line of conversation was supposed to have lead, and he immediately began challenging the wisdom of remaining in the vicinity. Even invisible, floating around the inside of a gymnasium as your best friend started detailing the finer points of his sex life with someone you despised was just…unsettling, to say the least. At least, he noted, Dash's impressive fish-out-of-water impersonation was an amusing consolation prize.

"So you…you're not…mad?" Dash asked, clearly befuddled, barely daring to sound hopeful.

Tucker only quirked an eyebrow. "Mad?" he repeated. "About what? You insulting my ability to give a decent blowjob?"

"Err…"

"Look," Tucker sighed. "I understand that whatever you said probably came off sounding pretty insulting, and maybe if I were there at the time, it would have pissed me off, sure, but in retrospect…well, I believe you, okay? I'm sure you didn't mean it in a derogatory way…or at least not to attack me personally, and obviously you achieved the desired effect of riling Danny up, so…it's in the past. Besides, I'm sure if you'd said something _really_ awful, Danny would never have kept me in the dark to spare _your_ ass. I'm surprised he didn't show me as it is, so…" Here, his face took on a new, softer expression, and Danny decided that yes, now was _definitely_ a really good time to back away…

…but he didn't.

"Just consider yourself forgiven, alright? For everything…for now. No more apologies, no more misunderstandings…deal?"

"Okay, umm…" It was odd, Danny thought, seeing the jock blush so much – like Paulina prancing around with an unmasked zit or Sammy digging into a two all-beef patty Biggie Mac or something. "Deal," Dash agreed, "but…" He shuffled his feet, something obviously lingering on his mind. "Err, Tucker?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you gonna…you know…ever answer my question?"

"Your…? Oh!" Though comprehension came to Tucker quickly, Danny remained frustratingly oblivious.

'_What question?'_

"Yes," Tucker answered. Then, probably realizing the blatant ambiguity in that, his cheeks darkened. "That is…" He cleared his throat. "Yes, I'll answer your question, and, umm…" For the first Danny could recall in a good, long time, Tucker looked honestly – adorably – _bashful_, "…yes," Tucker murmured. "I'd really…like that." A brief pause. "Err…to be your boyfriend, that is…assuming that was the question you mea-_mmph_…"

_CRASH!_

In the half second that followed Dash's lips sealing off the latter portion of Tucker's sentence with a kiss, several things happened at once.

First, technically about a half second _before_ that – around the time the word 'boyfriend' left Tucker's mouth – Danny's usually strong handle on the concept of hovering weakened substantially, to the point of futility. Next, around the time Dash's mouth _actually_ closed over Tucker's, Danny's no-longer-weightless body made sudden impact with an unsuspecting ball tub near the front gym doors, not only sending basketballs, soccer balls, footballs and the like flying in any number of different directions, but also – in congruence with watching his best friend lip lock with his 'hated rival,' so to speak – shocking him visible, tangible, and momentarily dumbstruck.

Fortunately, his state of dangerous vulnerability lasted less than the half second it took him to traverse the distance from ceiling to floor. _Unfortunately_, that was more than enough time for Tucker – unnervingly practiced in the art of pinpointing his location even when he was perfectly invisible – to whirl, spot him, narrow his eyes, and hiss a furious accusation in the form of his first name all immediately before Danny sputtered back into invisibility.

If he hadn't been so busy cursing the inopportune fickleness of his ghost powers, Danny might have taken a few seconds to appreciate the fact that in the time it took Tucker to notice all these goings on, absorb them, and react accordingly, Dash was still completely hung up on two factors:

a.) the occurrence of a loud, startling noise, and

b.) the subsequent loss of his kissing partner's attention.

However, Danny _was_ rather caught up in his silent swearing, most of his focus devoted to some combination of attempting a clumsy escape from the wildly ricocheting sports balls he'd so recently sent flying and demanding desperately that his body phase to a form that would keep him from having to worry about the aforementioned flying possible-concussion-inducers. Invisibility alone, he feared, would not spare him Tucker's wrath for long. And, of course, he was right.

In a matter of a few more seconds, he managed to right himself, shimmer into intangibility once more, and escape through the closed door. But alas, Tucker was not so easily deterred, and moments later, the same door banged open, Tucker snatched out blindly, barely catching Danny's still-invisible-but-momentarily-solid shirt, and forced him roughly against the nearest wall, leaving him no choice but to become fully visible once more, lest he either: one, reveal his secret, or two, cast Tucker off as a raging lunatic in front of his new – and he retched a little at the thought – _boyfriend_.

Neither, Danny guessed, would go down particularly well in the long run.

Thus, by the time Dash made it out of the gym, he found Danny pinned to a wall, hands raised in meek surrender, and Tucker's hand fisted forcibly in his shirt at his chest, angry shoves emphasizing equally unpleasant words.

_**Thus…**_

"You nosy, meddling, inconsiderate _bastard_…" Tucker stressed every other word or so with a jarring shove. "How…? _Why_…_?_" He shook his head; seething, incredulous. "I mean am I _that_…fucking…_untrustworthy_?" he hissed. "Or are you just _so_…_damn_…_childish_…that you can't-"

"Hey!" Dash's equally piqued, but louder and attention-demanding voice cut through Tucker's rant like a body through fog, dragging him both from his single-minded daze and turning two heads at once. "Hate to, you know…_break it up_," he growled, "but could somebody please explain to _me_ what the hell's going on?" and despite the ambiguous nature of the question, his eyes were trained solely on Tucker, and the accusation there was potent.

Under his glare, Tucker's anger wilted. "Dash…" he started, "it's not-"

"It's not his fault," Danny cut in, surprising Tucker and stealing Dash's attention in an instant.

"Oh, yeah?" he demanded. "And did I ask _you_, Fenton? 'Cause-"

"_Yes_, actually," Danny snapped icily, meeting Dash glare for glare, "you did. If you'll recall, you asked '_somebody_' to explain to you what's going on, and last I checked, I fall into the general category of 'somebody.' So if you'd shut your mouth for twenty full seconds and _listen_-"

"Danny-"

"You know _maybe_," Dash growled, barrelling heedlessly over Tucker's interruption and advancing without pause, "I don't give a shit what you have to say…" and as Dash moved in, Tucker backed out, dropping Danny's shirt in light of an abrupt, tactical retreat. Few wise things stood between a pissed off Dash Baxter and his unlucky target, and Tucker wasn't feeling particularly generous towards Danny at the moment anyway. "And _maybe_…" Dash continued, "if you know what's best for you-"

"And what if I don't, hmm?" Danny's lips curled back, baring teeth in an expression that looked far more like a sneer than a grin. "Are you gonna _hurt_ me?" he mocked, and Tucker watched Dash's fingers twitch, itching to curl into fists, and in that moment, he understood the role of the helpless bystander: trapped powerlessly outside the soundless glass box Danny and Dash had somehow erected around themselves in a few short seconds. "Will it be like _last_ time? 'Cause you know…I seem to remember hearing you say something back there…something about promising _not_ to fly wildly off the handle like a mad he-ape…and-"

"Danny-" Tucker tried again.

"-it'd be a real shame to have to break that promise _so_ soon, I mean…" Danny tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Trust is such a fragile thing, after all…" Dash hesitated; Danny smirked. "Come on, now…what'll it be? Gonna hit me? Is it _worth_ it?" Dash's hands clenched and released, and Tucker mentally swore. Where the hell was Danny going with—? "Or does he already have you too whipped to-_nngh_…"

"_Dash!_"

Danny lost the rest of his sentence to a panted grunt, Dash's hand fisting in his shirt and shoving him hard to the wall – a bit more roughly than Tucker's first attempt, from the looks of things – and-

"You…have no_ idea_ how lucky you are he'd be pissed if I broke you in half…" Dash snarled, vicious, and close enough to Danny's face that for a fleeting moment, Tucker thought bizarrely, '_They could kiss at that distance_…' before his stomach gave a rather sickening churn, and he took a startled step back.

Despite having a fist at his chest and an irate football player less than a foot from his face, Danny laughed. "Right," he said, "because I'm obviously already quaking in my boots, and who _knows_ what would happen if-"

_BRI-I-I-__ING!_

The clattering, overbearing ring that governed the school with draconian precision cut through Danny's sentence as sharply as any alarm clock, its signature wail marking the end of the school day, and on cue, the familiar rumble started: doors swinging open, sometimes banging, hundreds of feet and mouths piling into the halls and filling them with the ceaseless hum of dozens upon dozens of teenage voices, all melding together into a jumbled white noise.

Suddenly, Tucker had no desire to stick around and see things pan out, and with the fluid ease of years practice, he turned from Dash and Danny and in half a minute lost himself in the swelling masses. Down the science hall, left, past Mr. Rochester's class, the cafeteria and the front office, he moved on autopilot, traffic-dodging like a New York native and cutting the crowds with blind indifference.

'_So that's it_,' he thought bitterly. '_Months of steeping myself in enough denial to drown a fish, weeks of acting like an asshole because of something that was at least half Danny's fault in the first place, and then five _seconds_ of a relationship only to_-'

"Hey, Tucker!"

'_Fuck._' "Sam," greeted Tucker with painfully strained cheer and hoped it sounded better to her ears. "Hi, umm…"

Luckily, she had her own agenda. "Hey, have you seen Danny? He left early, not long after you did, and then he never…" She trailed off, frowning. "Are you alright?"

"I, uhhh…"

"And where's your backpack?"

"Oh, it's…" '_Double fuck,_' thought Tucker. '_Shit, shit, shit…what now?_' "I…left it," he said, "in the, uhh…" '_Well, where to? Back? No way…_' In a desperate glance across the hall, he found his answer. "…the library," he lied. "I was going to…study for a bit…" '_Until Dash and Danny are done beating each other to ground mincemeat, and then, maybe, just maybe, Dash will vent off enough steam that he'll just forget it all, and…_' Thinking of Dash's hurt, accusing glare, Tucker swallowed an acrid lump that rose a little too high in his throat, and he resisted the urge to wince. '_Yeah, right, because calm, cool, and forgiving and/or rational are totally Dash's thing_…' "Danny's down the hall," he said aloud, "outside the gym, last I saw…talking to Dash." '_Rational? Really?' _his inner voice snapped back at him._ 'And how exactly was he _supposed_ to take that, huh? 'Oh, look, it's Fenton randomly falling from the sky JUST in time to fuck with me asking Tucker out…must be a _coincidence_…?' Sure, that really-_'

"Talking to…" Sam's words slowed. "They're not…_again?_" she asked, but before Tucker could even open his mouth, she groaned, muttering something darkly beneath her breath before taking off a moment later. All the better, he supposed. Maybe _she_ could get through to them.

'_Not that it'll help _me_, but hey, at least they'll come out of it whole, right…?_' Right.

Sighing and disappointingly uncomforted, Tucker diverged from his bee-line path to the lockers and crossed over instead through the already thinning sea of students to the library.

Like sealing the door to a vacuum chamber, all the chaos of Casper High after the final bell dulled to a low hum the instant the door latched shut. Unfortunately, external quiet only opened the doors wide for internal uproar.

'_Maybe Dash'll just be pissed at Danny_,' he tried to reason with himself, '_I mean, it's not like _I _really had anything to do with it…_' and then: '_Oh yeah, because it's not like he ever made assumptions about Danny and I before,_ _even _after_ I told him several times nothing was going on between us…plus, yeah, it's _totally_ natural for best 'friends' to spy on each other's private business and randomly pop in at inopportune moments, fists raised, ready to pick a fight and_-'

Swearing silently, Tucker derailed that train of thought and weaned himself from the support of the door behind him, suddenly furious all over again not only with Danny – '_I mean, really, what the hell inspired him to show up, anyway?_' – and any number of the world's other injustices, but also with himself – '_Couldn't I have just dropped off the damn note and _left_…?_' – and his own stupidity in particular.

"Things were never supposed to get this complicated," he muttered sullenly, speaking to no one as he traversed the length of the empty library.

He retreated back through rows of shelves like towering wooden dominos, past the more "popular" sections, if any section of a high school library could aptly be dubbed such, and into areas so dusty with disuse he almost expected to start sneezing. When he reached the farthest corner, a cool niche between columns labeled "W" and "X-Z" in the historical non-fiction section, he snatched a book at random – a personal "Do Not Disturb" sign just in _case_ anyone happened in on him – and promptly sank to the floor. Glancing to his fingers, he tightened his grip, _not_ to keep his hands from shaking – because they _weren't_ – but because…

'_What?_' the more cynical part of him remarked snidely. '_Because it's not fair?_' it mocked, and he scowled.

"No," he grumbled aloud, softly, "it's _not_ fair…" but he'd known _that_ all along. It wasn't the unfairness that bothered him. It was more that, "I _knew_ this was going to happen…right?" he asked, directing the empty rhetoric at his recently-snatched text for lack of any alternative form of counsel. "I knew things would get screwed up eventually. Something was bound to go wrong, and I was _ready_ for that…"

But not for _this_.

'_Not for something _stupid_ like this,_' he thought spitefully. '_Not for_-' Suddenly childishly tempted to throw his book across the room, he shut his eyes, lopping off the mental monologue at the roots and taking a slow breath. '_Okay…_' he reasoned silently, '_say Danny hadn't shown up…then what?_'

'_Well, _duh,' snapped an irritated and reactionary part of him. '_I'd have a _boyfriend_ right now and be well on my way _home_ instead of sitting on my ass moping in a dusty library while Danny and Dash-_'

'_Okay, okay, so say Dash _doesn't_ blow this over the top_,' Tucker cut himself off, redirecting to a more productive line of thinking, i.e.: one that entertained _possible_ scenarios as opposed to irrational and hypothetical 'what if' clauses about the past. '_Say, by some miracle, we actually manage to talk like reasonable people and I convince him that I'm not with Danny and that this whole thing was all a ridiculous mistake and we collectively blame Danny and move forward_…'

_'Which won't happen_,' cynicism reminded him decisively; he ignored it.

'_How long before he gets suspicious again anyway?_'

It's one thing when your not-quite-really-official-yet-but-pretty-close boyfriend operates at the beck and call of his PDA, disappears with nothing more than a hasty, "Sorry, can't explain now, gotta go," the moment his 'friend' pages in, and repeats the process on an almost habitual basis. It's something else entirely if said "unofficial" boyfriend becomes _official_, and then tries to pull the same stunt.

Suffice to say, Dash wasn't stupid. Slow on the uptake occasionally, sure; not the _sharpest_ tool in the shed, well, yeah. But stupid? No. Inevitably, it was only a matter of time before he put two and two together to get the obvious four; never mind that there were any number of extra factors stuffed in that equation that he wasn't aware of and that Tucker couldn't point out, which made the real answer practically indecipherable.

"Shit, I never should have said yes…" Tucker grunted, dropping his head back to the bookshelf behind him and scrunching his eyes shut.

Getting into a real relationship with Dash wouldn't change anything, except that Dash would expect answers; _real_ ones.

"…and hell, he'd _deserve_ some," Tucker snapped aloud, keeping his to voice low hiss, but glowering nonetheless.

Dash _left_ Paulina. He'd ignored the risks to his reputation and made every effort to prove that he planned to continue doing so.

'_And I've…what?'_ thought Tucker bitterly._ 'Run out on him? Left him with one lame excuse after another, if I even bother to give him one?' _

"Maybe it _is_ better if he blows this over the top," he considered, pointedly ignoring the boding lurch in his stomach at the thought. "So he'll hate me and think I'm a weasely, lying ass, engage in a last brawling throw down with Danny about it and then never talk to me again…but at least things will end early, reasonably cleanly, and before things get worse…before anyone really gets…"

"_So, how about it…be my boyfriend?"_

Tucker swallowed sharply, forcing moisture down a suddenly tight, parched throat, and said "…hurt," in a voice slightly thinner than he intended.

'_Right,_' he thought sardonically, '_because this doesn't h_-'

"Oh, shut up," he snarled, suddenly furious with himself, and sat up again, off the bookcase. "I'm fine. This is… Whatever, I'm fine, and I'm…talking to myself." '_Great_.' Peevish and scowling, his head slumped forward, sinking sullenly into the waiting hammock of his palms, and his fingers found his temples, rubbing small circles. "Real relationships require trust, Tucker, okay? From both sides. Honesty, openness, and trust, and as long as Danny has his secret…as long as _I_ have his secret and it needs to _stay_ secret…then I can't have that. I can't offer it, can't give it, can't do it, period…end of story. It's not fair to Dash…or _whoever_…"

And yet…

Part of him had known _that_ all along too…hadn't it?

Even _if_ the relationship was doomed from the get go, the journey, the effort, the ride, while it lasted, was enough of an incentive to try. Was that selfish? To want something more serious, even if he'd be the one who could never fully live up to his side of the silent bargain? Probably, he decided. But he still wanted it. Really, he'd never had a "proper" relationship. Something had always gotten in the way. His own incompetence, mostly, but also school, or ghost hunting, or…

He thought of Danny, shoved against the wall, desperately trying to explain himself mere minutes ago, of the crash that jerked he and Dash apart and of whirling and turning and spotting, in the fraction of a second before he sputtered out and disappeared, Danny, caught, shocked, and guilty. Then Danny, bloodied under Dash –_ 'Was that a month ago, yet?' _– barely conscious, but victorious all the same as a horde of teachers dragged Dash off. Danny in his room, telling him what a horrible person Dash was, in his closet telling him he wasn't jealous, and then over and over again, back through every year of high school: furious Danny, miserable Danny, ecstatic Danny, sometimes gushing over his successes with Sam, other times tumbling through Tucker's door – sometimes literally tumbling _through_ his door – interrupting whatever he was doing, whether it be video games or homework or fiddling with his gadgets, and grabbing him and kissing him in earnest, never asking if it was okay, always assuming that Tucker just sort of existed for Danny: to be there for him, to support him, to need him, to…

"Fuck," Tucker hissed, swallowing a hard knot and dropping his head back to the wall, blinking harshly. "That's not fair," he reasoned allowed. "It can't be _all_ Danny's fault…" '…_right?'_ "No, of course not…" '_If anything, it's my fault…for letting my life revolve around him so much, for letting him make the assumptions he did…hell, for proving him right.'_

"But…that doesn't give you a right to keep interfering _now_," he insisted, angry again. "It doesn't give you a right to fuck with me at _every damn turn_, to prevent me from living my life. _You're_ the superhero, not me…you're the one with the secret and the super powers…so, what? You get the fame, and the glory, and the good looks, and the girl, and I get…your _secret_? _Your_ secret to keep from the people _I_ care about? So that _I'm_ always lying or running off without an explanation and I can't ever talk because it's not even my own damn identity to reveal? You know what that sounds like to me? Sounds like a fucking _raw deal_…like I got screwed over by the sharp…splintery…short end of the stick of fate with no damn lube and then-"

"That-"

Tucker jerked backwards, making a stifled yelp and swearing profusely when his head collided hard with the shelf behind him.

"-sounds like a really…interesting…book. I didn't know they kept ones like that in here…"

"I…b…uhh…the, umm…_nghh_…" Tucker winced, bringing fingers tenderly to the growing lump on the back of his head and blinking blearily upwards at his unexpected guest. "Y…err…D-dash?"

"Umm…yeah, last I checked…" said Dash, approaching from the far end of the shelves and halting but a few feet from him, expression strikingly akin to concern. "Your head okay?"

"It's, uhh…yeah, I'm…" Tucker fumbled his words, blushing. What was Dash _doing _here? "I'm…fine, but…what are you…? Danny didn't-" He started to say 'beat you up,' but then thought better of it. Then: '_Shit, how long has he been standing there? What all did hear? What if…fuck, life hates me._' "Dash, how long have you been…listening?"

Dash blinked. "Uhh…"

"When you came in," Tucker insisted, anxious, "you startled me, I was talking…what did you overhear?"

"Oh, the, umm…" Dash appeared to think back, thoughtful. "Something about you getting raped by a stick?" he ventured. "Didn't sound comfortable…why?"

Breathing a sigh of relief – and mentally stifling a guilty pang of disappointment – Tucker shook his head. "It was…no reason," he muttered, but the dissatisfaction lingered. It would have been so _easy_ that way: for Dash to have simply walked in at the wrong time, to have overheard, for it all to have been an _accident_, and yet to no longer have to keep the secret. Apparently, his mental state showed.

"Was there…something I missed?"

"Huh? Oh, no," Tucker denied, unsuccessfully working to convince himself it was _good_ that Dash hadn't heard too much. "It's alright, I was just…babbling…" He frowned, returning to his original line of thinking. "What _are_ you doing here, anyway? You and Danny didn't fight? I thought…I mean, last I saw it…well, it looked like…"

"You ran off," said Dash, as if that explained everything, and Tucker frowned.

"Well, yeah, but-"

"Figured I'd better deal with you first," he said, and suddenly, Tucker empathized intimately with cornered prey.

Deeply regretting the walled-off, secluded nature of his chosen hideaway, he shook his head, repeating, "Deal…with?" with more than just a little apprehension. "You…" He tried to work through any number of possible interpretations of that specific choice of words. "You…came here to beat _me_ up?" he asked, incredulous. "Because," His words sped up, "it _wasn't_ my fault, you know. Whether you believe it or not, I had nothing to do with him showing up and I was as surprised as you and _pissed_ at him for interfering 'cause it wasn't his business and I didn't _want_ him there – not that I even know what he was doing there in the first place because he shouldn't have been there, obviously he had class – but also we're in a library, too, so, you know, this would really actually be a pretty bad place anyway if you felt you had to like, get back at me or something because someone could hear or come in and besides, you might mess up the, uhh, books or shel…ving…or some…umm…" His words trailed, gradually dropping off to nothing because Dash was standing there, looking at him like him like he'd broken into Orcish (Martian or Klingon?), and after three seconds of eternity, he swallowed. "Okay, what?"

For another brief period, Dash said nothing. Then, with the air of a park ranger moving in on a wounded animal, he edged forward, stooping down and settling into a low crouch on the balls of his feet.

"'M _not_ here to hit you…" he said, and Tucker felt a twinge of guilt for the relief that swept him.

'_Unfair_,' he thought. '_Surely Dash wouldn't _really_ have_…' Then, he mentally amended, '_No, he really _might _have_,' practicality warring with optimism, and he kept his grimace to himself. "Alright," he muttered aloud, "so what _are_ you here for? Aren't you…" He hesitated, _"Are you mad at me?"_ sounding hopelessly childish, even in his head, and he swallowed the words. Eventually, he settled instead for, "You didn't look very happy with me last I saw…" and Dash's lips thinned.

"Well, no…" he admitted, after a long moment, "I wasn't…" and Tucker waited for some elaboration.

When none came, he prompted, "But…?"

Dash's look didn't quite pass as a smile. "But…" He frowned, appearing to mentally juggle his words. Finally, he said, "See, thing is…pretty much everything you just finished sayin'…is the exact same as whatever Fenton was tryin' to tell me all up to about two or three minutes ago, and…" He paused. "Well, 'cept that his bit came out a bit slower and clearer…" Tucker blushed, "…and less run together and such and actually made _sense_, but-"

"Hey, I-"

"-you know, same _thing_, basically," Dash continued, "and I figured…if there _was_ anything between you two…" His frown deepened, "…if there was, then, I mean…" Tucker watched Dash reach to the knees of his jeans, picking idly at loose threads as he spoke, "…then, he'd be like…the _suckiest_ boyfriend I know for sendin' me after you anyway, and so I thought…maybe…even if…"

"Dash…" Tucker waited until Dash looked up, "…it's _not_ like that," he said, holding Dash's stare, "I mean it…" and he shifted his weight against the bookcase, closing up the long-forgotten text in his lap and pulling it to his chest. "It hasn't been for a long time, and it won't…" He frowned. "It's just…not. Alright?"

For a long moment, Dash just watched him. Then, slowly, but not without stubbornly lingering uncertainty, he nodded. "Alright, but…there _is_ something you won't tell me…" he asserted, and Tucker opened his mouth – _almost_ denying it – but, uncertain, he shut it again and drew his lip between his teeth.

Was this the part where he said something about things too complicated to work out in the long run? Made up some wonky fib about nothing and bolted like a cornered gopher before things got too convoluted to untangle?

'_Sorry, Dash, it's just, there's this thing, but I can't tell you what it is, so I'm going to have to call this off on account of…what?_' he thought, dropping his gaze to his lap and tightening his grip on the text._ 'Mystery nothing number three? How am I supposed to-_'

"Tucker?"

Tucker's head jerked back up, "I…" but words failed him, and he swallowed. "Dash…it's…I just…I can't…"

"Hey…" Fingers caught his chin, lifting it – he hadn't realized he'd started looking down again – and it abruptly struck him how _close_ they were, how, if Dash leaned maybe three inches forward, their noses would bump, and the sense of being pinned in returned, but this time minus the trapped, must-get-away, claustrophobic feel. "You can trust me, you know…"

"I do trust you," Tucker blurted. Then, belatedly, he realized he _meant_ it, and his cheeks warmed. "I trust you," he repeated, softer. "This is just…"

"You want me to drop it," said Dash, and Tucker looked down.

'_Yes,_' he thought selfishly. '_I want you to drop it and never bring it up again, but…_' "Could I maybe just…ask you to trust _me_ on this?" he ventured, pointedly ignoring as guilt and pragmatism raked him over the coals for digging his own grave. "This doesn't…well, it _shouldn't_…have anything to do with…err…"

"Us?" Dash provided, and Tucker's blush deepened. Did that word have any right to sound quite so personal?

"Umm…yeah," he mumbled, "somethin' like that…_but_," he hastened to add, "if you don't, I totally understand. I know maybe it sounds like I'm feeding you a line of bull, and I really haven't given you any reason to trust me so far, so it makes perfects sense if-"

"Okay," said Dash, and Tucker's sentence met an untimely end, petering out to a broken exhale at the gentle tap of a finger to his lips. "I'll trust you, and…guess we can just do this my way and deal with possible future shit when it happens, yeah?"

Tucker eyed Dash, looking for the doubt, _waiting _to hear the catch. But none came, and eventually, unable to resist, he gave a small smile. "What? No looking before the leap?" he asked.

Dash shrugged. "Might chicken out, if you know all of what you're gettin' into…and then where's the fun?"

"Mm, right…" said Tucker, '…_unless the cliff's steeper than you guessed and you end up falling and breaking your legs_…' But, he kept the mental addition to himself and mumbled, "Sounds like kooky teenager logic, to me…" instead, and Dash's snicker brushed across his lips.

"Best kind," he vowed, leaning forward, but a moment before he closed the distance completely, Tucker cut him off.

"Wait, there's, umm…one other thing…" At Dash's raised eyebrows, his cheeks warmed. "I mean it," he insisted. "If we're really gonna do this, we have to decide…erm…"

"Yeah?" Dash prompted, letting their foreheads rest together, and that sort of proximity _really_ wasn't helping Tucker's concentration. Blonde eyelashes, for instance: very distracting.

"It's…just…we…" He swallowed and shut his eyes, taking a breath and then blurting quickly, before he lost his nerve, "…wehavetodecidewhatthismeans…ahead of time…before…you know, err…" When he summoned the nerve to venture a glance, Dash met his look with one of blank, absolute incomprehension.

"Again, maybe?" he asked after a moment. "In English?"

Tucker dropped his eyes, abashed. "Right. I just meant…we should decide ahead of time what we're doing…like…I mean how we're going to handle things and stuff…what it means that we're…if we…"

Dash frowned. "What it 'means?'" he repeated, obviously still not quite getting it. "Shouldn't it…I mean…wouldn't it just mean what it _usually_ does?" he asked, confused, and Tucker hastened to nod, jumping in.

"Well, yeah, in most ways, sure," he agreed. "I just meant like, when…that is, if other people…"

"Okay, how's this," Dash cut in. "I'll tell you what _I_ meant when I asked you out…and if you see it different, you tell me, alright?"

"I, uhh…okay, I guess," Tucker conceded.

"'Kay, one…" Dash held up a finger, "…you don't date anyone, I don't date anyone. Two…" He lifted another, "…if you decide you wanna date someone else, we break up…and three…" With a third finger, he shrugged, "…guess it just means we quit lyin' to ourselves and keeps spendin' time together, really…"

"So if someone asks…" Tucker pressed.

"Then you say you're in a relationship," Dash answered simply.

"And if they ask who with?" Tucker questioned.

"Then you say you're…" Dash trailed off, hesitating as the dilemma sank in, and Tucker gave a faint, knowing twitch of a smile, eyes finding the carpet once more.

"That's more what I meant," he mumbled, his thumb running absently over the corner of the book he had yet to let go of as he examined the floor. "It's not that I didn't know what you meant by wanting to make this more real, just more that…I don't know how much you're willing to let it get around, or who you don't want to hear about it, or…you know, what you think everyone will think if th-"

"People can think whatever the hell they want," Dash grunted, and Tucker's hand stilled immediately as his eyes darted up, more than a little startled, for obvious reasons. He found Dash glaring at the floor. "It's not…" Dash's frown deepened as his words stalled. Finally, he sighed. "Look, I don't give a damn about whatever anyone has to say about me on this one…I've said it to Kwan and I'll tell you too, 'cause I know it's true…no one's gonna come straight after me. I can handle my own and nobody's really got balls anyhow, but…" Here, his fingers flexed, stretching and then almost making fists in a way that reminded Tucker a little too much of the moments right before he and Danny would start swinging, and when Dash lifted his head, sure enough that too-familiar anger flickered there, hovering like a fuse dangled before a lit match, just _waiting_ for the slightest excuse to catch. Heaven forbid Tucker ever forget _why_ he never wanted to be the target of Dash's fury. "Let's just say…" Dash muttered at length, "…that more than a couple guys I know aren't exactly…homo-friendly, and if any of 'em ever decide they _really_ wanna strike out…they're not dumb enough not to pick and choose who they go after."

'_Oh_,' thought Tucker. Then, he frowned. "You know, just because I'm not the most formidable guy on the block doesn't mean-"

"There's not a guy on my team smaller than you," Dash cut in, point blank. "Football or basketball…'fact…I'd put money on there not being a sports player at this _school_ smaller than you…freshman included. But," he continued before Tucker could press, "…it's not like it would matter either way anyhow, even if you weren't…'cause it's not like bullies play fair…" Tucker watched, attentive as Dash's expression grew distant with the admittance, folding inward and darkening with something – guilt or anger or frustration – that he couldn't quite distinguish. "We travel in fucking _packs_," he grunted at last. "Three or four or five or more, no matter how small the prey is…and it's never near a teacher or near a good place to run…it's when you're walking home late one day after school or you're in a park alone and we see you and we're bored, so why the hell not? And with even just a tiny excuse, we can…it's like-"

"Dash-"

"You know how much that _sucks?_" Dash snapped suddenly. "To know that _I_ was that guy…so _many_ damn times before, and now…hell, maybe I still am, but…fuck, I don't want them to know. I know it's not like sooner or later people won't find out anyway, and if I thought breaking a couple skulls and pounding some sense into people now would help I would, but don't think it will and…it's just…" He grit his teeth. "Dammit, I swear to God, if someone hurts you…"

"Hey…" Tucker reached up, but hesitated, fingers stalling a half inch from Dash's face, and then curling back into his palm, uncertain. "You know…I _have_ had almost a dozen years of practice getting picked on…" he mumbled, gaze dropping habitually back down as his hand found its way back around the book. "So, I mean…I appreciate the sentiment and all, but…I've kina learned to take my beatings by now, I guess you could say, so if that's what it takes…" He shrugged, glancing back just enough to watch Dash from under the upper rim of his glasses, watching as his anger waned, melting back into something more akin to guilt and then, eventually, resignation.

"Yeah, I know," Dash conceded. "I guess I just meant…" He took a breath. "Tell whoever you want. Just…you know…don't go, umm…" He frowned, donning his – very familiar by now – 'searching for a word' expression, and Tucker felt a smile tug at his lips, unbidden, "…pro…prov…that…" He scowled. "Dammit, you know what I mean, that 'p' word that means bugging people and giving 'em an excuse to fight?"

"Provoke?" Tucker provided, unable to help the amusement that crept into his tone, and Dash snorted, but looked otherwise unbothered.

"Yeah," he grunted, "that…" and then, after a prolonged moment he added, "You know, I knew that word."

"Uh-huh."

"I _did_," he defended. "I just-"

"I believe you," Tucker cut in, actually meaning it, and his smile grew with the words, blooming as he spoke into something neither quite innocent or cheeky enough to pass as a grin, nor quite cocky or suave enough to count as a smirk. "So…" There was only the faintest hint of teasing in his voice, largely overridden by good-natured humor, "…you think I'm provocative?"

To Tucker's immense satisfaction, Dash rewarded the comment with a top-notch reminder of just how expertly his emotions broadcasted themselves without him ever uttering a word, blue eyes and light cheeks darkening fetchingly at the casual double-entendre and lips just barely parting. Then, though, as swift and effortless as flipping a coin, he turned the tables, huffing once as he gained composure and then moving in, planting caging hands on either side of Tucker's shoulders and leaning forward until Tucker could have counted his eyelashes if he so chose.

"I could prove that I do," he offered huskily, "if you want…" his voice probably only a semi-tone lower than normal, teasing in a way that had absolutely no right to make Tucker's skin prickle to attention, but somehow managed to anyway. It took Tucker a moment to remember what they were talking about.

"Umm…" By the time he got close, however, it didn't seem to matter much anymore anyway – what with Dash hovering a half inch from his lips and all – and thus, "Mm…'kay, uhh…sure," was about the sum of his verbal response before a final puff of warm air skimmed his lips and speaking ceased altogether.

It started maddeningly slowly: Dash scarcely brushing one corner of his mouth, teasing him with a fleeting, shadow of a kiss, but retreating as soon as he tried to turn into it, and then repeating the move on opposite side. When Tucker opened his mouth, though, Dash's tongue darted out, flicking over his lower lip and dampening it a moment before he blew, and a sound Tucker never intended to make effectively muted out whatever he might have planned on saying.

"Dash, you-" he started to accuse a half second later, finally abandoning his stolen book entirely in favor of reaching up and forcing Dash closer, but by the time the book hit the floor, Dash had already abandoned his cat-and-mouse game of his own accord and advanced, and the word, "tease…" dissipated into something of a breathy hum between their lips instead. As his fingers buried themselves in the soft blonde locks at the nape of Dash's neck and his eyelids dropped contentedly, first to half-mast, and then shut entirely, it pleased Tucker to note that, despite all the awkward in-between, kissing Dash came as naturally as ever.

"So," he concluded after the first break, turning his head into another kiss even as he said it, "sounds like the final verdict is…" and he grinned before the words ever left his mouth, "…tell anyone I like, but…you know, avoid strutting around campus in rainbow tie-dye with 'kick me, I'm dating the quarterback' airbrushed on in glittery bubble letters?"

It was the sort of moment where Tucker half expected Dash's eye to twitch. It would have fit, really. After a drawn out pause, though, Dash just rolled his eyes, the tiniest of peculiar smiles gracing his lips just before he shook his head, dipped down for one more kiss, and then stood.

"C'mon," he muttered, offering up a hand – which Tucker took – and helping him to his feet. "I think…if left to you…we'd _both_ be mincemeat before we made it a week."

"Aww, come on," Tucker teased, nothing but playful, "I think it would be…fun!" and Dash's grimace was probably genuine.

"Your idea of fun," he said slowly, picking his words, "is…"

"…riveting?" Tucker supplied helpfully.

"…weird," Dash concluded. Then, a moment later, he frowned. "Riveting?"

* * *

**A/N: **SO. How long before everyone in the school knows? :D

In addition to that, a poll: In regards to chapter length in stories such as this, which do you prefer? Shortish and to-the-point; medium length and more in depth; or don't care how long it is as long as it gets posted? I've been asked how long this story is going to be, but (as I believe many full-length fictions tend to do) it keeps getting longer and longer and out-stretching the boundaries I originally had planned for it. As I think I've said from the start, I do have this planned to the end, it's just a matter of getting everything I want to happen in there in a sensible order and still have it flow and wrap up like I want (which is harder than it sounds, if it doesn't sound hard). Well, there's the matter of writing it, too, and I suppose that does technically take the longest, at least for me.

In any case, I would be interested in the opinions of my readers on how much they're willing to digest in one sitting (no chapter, including this one, has broken the glass ceiling of 9k words - yet). I just don't want to bore y'all. (And I also, for selfish reasons, like, say *cough*wantingreviews*cough*, like to post slightly shorter chapters, just so I can get feedback. I don't necessarily get more feedback for a longer chapter; sometimes the opposite.)

Chapter seventeen is more or less finished; chapter eighteen is in progress. Expect an update in a month's time (unless for some crazy reason I decide to post sooner, but at the moment it's not in the plan). This update will be edited when I receive feedback from my beta, so don't consider any current mistakes to be mistakes on his part. He's perfect; he doesn't make mistakes. ;P


	17. Balance

**A/N:** This chapter is not work safe. Consider yourself warned. In addition to the M-rated content, this chapter is also ridiculously fluffy beyond all reason, so…consider yourself warned on that front, as well, I suppose. I figured they deserved at least one chapter of cutesy stuff before I threw them back into the plot development/drama etcetera to come. They did work for a while to get to where they are, after all. Carry on…

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen:**

Balance

"Shit, shit, shit…" Tucker strung the words so closely together they barely counted as separate exclamations. "I'm gonna fall, I'm gonna fall, I'm gonna-"

"'Course you're gonna fall," Dash agreed, and then grinned in spite of himself when Tucker shot him a startled, innately distracted glare – and nearly lost his precious balance in the process. "I mean it's sorta a given," he reasoned, obliging his boyfriend's nervousness despite his teasing and tightening his grip. "If you managed the whole round without a single screw up, that'd be like…"

"Well, it's…yeah…but…you said…" Tucker spoke brokenly, his attention clearly divided. Apparently simultaneously putting together functional sentences _and_ keeping his body at least marginally upright was more work than it looked like. As it was, Dash found himself making up for a substantial portion of Tucker's lack of balance anyway. Not that he particularly minded the extra contact.

"I said I'd _teach_ you," Dash reiterated, attempting to lead by example in getting Tucker to rearrange his feet, motioning them farther apart and straightening the angles. "Doesn't mean you don't still have to _learn_…"

"Well, yeah, of course I know _that_, I just…" Tucker frowned. "Err, wait…what?"

Chuckling, Dash just shook his head and waved it off. "Nothin'. Here, just…okay, first off, you're gonna have to relax some…"

It surprised him, actually, how easily he shifted into 'teacher' mode despite never having assumed the role before – excluding perhaps training sessions with the team and every so often shepherding rookie recruits, but that felt different somehow. That was a chore, and a pain at that. Freshman always thought they knew everything – or at least knew better than anyone giving out advice or orders – and seemed to feel obligated to buck any yolk put on them. Tucker, though, learned with an open mind, almost like a child – unassuming, impressionable, and, well, _trusting_.

"You won't get anywhere wound up like kicker about to go for the deciding point," Dash advised, "Here…" and he took one of Tucker's hands in each of his, feeling the twitch and clench of Tucker's grip as his weight teetered and adjusting appropriately. "The first step is to at least catch your balance standing straight…"

It was Thursday afternoon, barely two weeks since the rocky kick-off into their "official" relationship, and Dash was making good of his promise to teach Tucker to skate. Soon, the ice would be hazardously thin and mandatory afterschool basketball practice would begin demanding increasing amounts of Dash's time as the semester progressed, but for now, the lightly overcast skies and after school hours gave them a practical monopoly on their chosen corner of the lake. Perfect settings, for a beginner.

"Good," Dash encouraged sincerely, eyes on Tucker's feet as he slowly weened himself from complete dependency on external support. "Now, I've got you, and I'm not gonna let go, so you can trust me…but you can't be afraid of the ice either," he stressed, "'cause you _are _gonna fall, and-"

"Oh, gee, thanks-"

"-but that's _part_ of it…okay?" Dash insisted, amusement creeping up on him despite his resolution to remain at least reasonably serious, and Tucker grunted indistinctly, accompanying the sound with no small amount of under-his-breath muttering that seemed to pose the question as to why anyone would ever _willingly_ engage in a sport where 'part of it' was inevitably falling on one's rear. Since, as far as Dash knew, most all sports fell into that category somewhere along the line, he opted not to comment. In any case, the statement seemed rather hypocritical at best, considering Tucker himself obviously fell under the category of "willing participant," at least for the time being.

"Right, okay, good…now, spread your legs som-"

In retrospect, Dash would admit that perhaps his exact choice of words there had some room for improvement. As it was, the sequence of events the transpired as a consequence all unfolded within the span of a few short seconds, leaving him too little time to reconsider, much less take anything back or compensate.

First, within a half-second of the initial utterance, Tucker's grip tightened substantially, gloved hands tensing in his as startled green eyes grew briefly wide, and then, Tucker's sense of balance apparently ran for the hills, because in the next second his center of gravity took a swift and unanticipated dive, making him quite impossible to hold up. Thus, two seconds and a startled half-yelp later they were both – despite Dash's best efforts – little more than a disoriented heap of tangled limbs, prone on the ice. After several long moments of blinking dizzily up to the skies above, Dash rolled his head, casting a squinted, sidelong glance in Tucker's direction.

"Ow…?" was the grand sum of his woes.

Turning a rather distinguished shade of dark, cherry-brown, Tucker scrambled immediately to right himself. At least, Dash thought, he managed to look sincerely bashful in the process, awkwardly pushing back and attempting to remove as much of his weight from Dash's torso as quickly as possible – with mixed results – gloves and knees slipping more than once on the uncooperative ice.

"That…I…it was…" Tucker fumbled the words with impressive indiscretion, and from the ground, Dash wondered how 'ridiculously flustered' and 'totally adorable' managed to co-exist so peacefully together in one expression. "You said…told me to…see…" At last, he reached a sort of quasi-stable, half-sitting posture, perched on toes and knees with one hand still to the ice, and Dash, in no great rush to extend much effort resituating himself, scooted only enough to prop himself up on his elbows, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"So, wait, I told you to what now?" he asked, almost as intrigued as he was amused. "You're saying this was _my_ fault?"

Tucker, cheeks still alight, dropped his eyes, apparently suddenly fascinated with a loose shred of ice. Distractedly utilizing his one free hand to resettle partly-dislodged glasses, he shook his head. "No, no, I meant…you just told me to…that is, umm…never mind, I guess. Sorry," he apologized. "I just was, uhh…got distracted."

Unconvinced, Dash snorted as he sat up, shaking his head and trying to think back. "All I was doin' was trying to help you steady yourself. Get your balance, spread your…" He blinked, a thought dawning in that moment, and he immediately his eyes darted back to Tucker, who in turn shook his head. "Wait…_was_ it…?"

"No. Don't even-"

"It _was_," Dash realized, triumphant, and paid no heed whatsoever to Tucker's warning, rolling straight over whatever remained of the sentence with a burst of bright, bubbling laughter. "You…it was…because…" His snickers broke up the words, continuing straight on until weight hit his chest again, a gloved hand making a clumsy attempt at muzzling his words.

"You…" Tucker ground out between dips and swerves, fighting with both himself and gravity for balance as he continued to make easily deflectable attempts to stifle Dash's snickering, "…ass-"

"Yeah, actually…" Dash retorted playfully, still grinning from ear to ear as Tucker nearly flopped on top of him in the midst of his attempts, "…yours really isn't half bad, now that you mention it. I might even-"

"_Dash_-"

Dash rolled strategically. Then, in a smooth, practiced move, he righted himself before Tucker even recovered from his absence, moving up into a crouch, steadying his feet and his balance, and then standing promptly. When he took two quick, skated steps backwards, Tucker – abandoned – threw him a pout.

"_Dash_…" he whined, "…_so_ not fair," and Dash, safely out of reach, raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, what, I'm the good guy now?"

Tucker gave a dramatized sniff, but somewhere along the line – between the pout, being obviously trapped on all fours on the ice, and that _look_ – he somehow pulled off a surprisingly compelling damsel in distress act, and with little more than a keened, "_Please_…_?_" Dash caved and came back, careful not to skate too near Tucker's fingers.

"Alright, alright, here…" He offered a hand, stooping slightly and bracing himself as Tucker reached up, and in the next few moments they worked in tandem, playing a metaphorical game of hot potato with a precarious balance of weight and equilibrium to get his smaller, less-than-steady boyfriend successfully back on his feet. Finally, Tucker landed against his chest with a huff, and a moment later groaned, turning his face in to the front of Dash's jacket and curling his fingers into the fabric, as if letting go at that point would mean another certain tumble to the ice.

"This," Tucker professed, voice muffled by the fleece of Dash's coat, "is irrefutable proof…that sports…suck," but Dash registered very little past the initial collision, his focus monopolized instead by the presence of Tucker, radiating body heat, and curled obliviously into his chest, mumbling against him.

Had they ever hugged before? And if not, did this count? The thoughts flit in innocently enough, but lingered with stubborn persistence. It didn't seem like they had, Dash thought, but maybe he just wasn't remembering clearly. It _was_ a sort of girly thing, cuddly, and soft, and – he blinked – when, exactly, had his arms wound their way around Tucker's waist, anyway? Tucker smelled nice.

"…Dash?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, right. Sure," he said, not quite sure of much besides the fact that Tucker seemed to be waiting for an answer of some sort, but in his experience agreeing usually worked well in those kinds of situations, so he went with it. Tucker's glasses looked half fogged; he said as much, and Tucker chuckled, but reached for his glasses anyway. It was the chuckle that inspired Dash's next, "What?" and Tucker blinked up at him.

"Hm?"

"What's funny?"

"Oh, nothing," Tucker responded, smiling even as he shook his head, and Dash pursed his lips in disbelief. A moment before he could raise the issue again though, Tucker replaced his glasses and grinned, saying with just enough amusement to make it impossible to miss, "I laughed because you just agreed with me that sports suck," and Dash, caught, felt the heat – first creeping up his neck, then blooming on his face.

"Oh, no, I was—that was just, it…uh, ha-"

How Tucker managed to find the balance to lean up, catch Dash's shoulders, and cut off his sputtering with a neat, and effectively silencing, peck on the lips was far beyond Dash's then-capacity for organized thought – or at least, it probably would have been, had he bothered to expend any mental effort puzzling it out. As it was, very little thought went into anything at all past the part where Tucker sealed off the tail end of his sentence with two lips that very rarely allowed him enough spare concentration to go on thinking anyway.

"Have I ever told you," Tucker said quietly in the next moment, after pulling away enough to speak, but not so much that Dash couldn't still feel the warmth of his words in the form of puffs of white breath curling between them, "you have a really cute blush."

Dash, who was pretty certain he had never, in fact, received any such comment in his life – most likely because there were very few persons he could think of who would ever even dare say such a thing and none but his mother would fit the type to actually utter the words aloud, and she of course didn't count in the least – didn't get much past blushing even hotter and muttering something highly sophisticated like, "Erm…" before Tucker grinned and saved him from having to make any further comment by continuing on himself.

"Didn't think so…s'okay, though, trust me: you do. Come on…" His hands dropped some, back around to where they were on Dash's arms pre-fall, "…you can't tell me our lesson's over already, right?"

"Oh, umm…" Mentally, Dash breathed a huge sigh of relief, and maybe some of it showed externally too, because Tucker chuckled – a warm, friendly chuckle that Dash could forgive him for, though – and Dash smiled. "Yeah, 'course not…but first…" He leaned in, taking advantage of the close proximity to let the words tease up the curve of Tucker's ear, "…you'll have to agree to listen to me whenever I tell you how much to spread your legs…" and Tucker's grip on his arms tightened, "…_without_ sending us both falling on our asses…deal?" He felt the heat of Tucker's cheeks on his neck. Oh yeah, revenge was sweet.

"Okay…" He heard, and felt, Tucker's quick swallow, but when Tucker leaned back, he met him dead in eye, "…but…you gotta promise to go slow and not tease me, since this _is_ my first time and all…"

Dash blinked. Half the trouble with dating someone smart, he decided, had to be that no conversation could go by without it taking on multiple, interwoven interpretations.

"To be fair," Tucker cut into his thought process, "you started it…" and Dash briefly considered adding 'reads minds' to the long list of strange and unusual talents Tucker apparently possessed that he had yet to – and to be honest, probably never would – understand.

Instead, he huffed, smirking just slightly. "'Course," he said, pleased to note that it came out sounding as about smug as he meant and not quite so distracted as he felt. "Wouldn't wanna scare you off after the first lesson…but," He took hold of Tucker's hands and backed up some, adding back the foot or so of space between them necessary to get back to practicing, "you gotta know…a little teasing is like…can't go without it."

Tucker opened his mouth – probably to argue – but Dash cut him off with a prompt dive back into teacher mode, and surprisingly enough, Tucker let it go, conceding not only to letting Dash have the last word but also to reassuming the skater-in-training role without a fuss. It was amazing, really.

After thirty minutes, Tucker declared stalwartly that Dash truly was trying only to kill him and that should they continue much longer, Dash would have cart him bridal style back to the river bank for lack of other means to lug him and his soon-to-be-useless legs to a place of relative safety for rest. Dash, of course, gamely agreed, all the while fully aware that, judging from the look on his face, Tucker totally thought he was kidding. After fifty-six minutes, almost as many falls, and seven "near death experiences," Tucker made a sharp, yelping noise of the sort he probably wouldn't admit to later, and immediately began demanding with fierce purpose that Dash _put him down _because-

"I was _kidding!_ Dash, Dash, Dash-"

"Yes?"

"_Dash_-"

"Yes?"

"Dash-"

"Y-"

"Put. Me. _Down!_" Tucker demanded, his arms – quite contrary to his words, to Dash's intense amusement – winding themselves tighter around Dash's neck and shoulders with every outburst. "This is ridiculous! I was lying, I admit it, okay? I take it all back…my legs work fine! I can wal—err—skate! Back, that is, to the ground, where it's—_please_, Dash, just…ohhhh, fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, you're gonna drop me and we're gonna fall and we're gonna skewer ourselves on our skates and there's gonna be blood and broken bones and tragedy and somebody's gonna have to call an ambulance and-"

"Tucker?"

"Mm?" was something of a muffled whine buried into the nook of Dash's neck and shoulder.

"Ready to get down now?"

"If-" The sentence started with all the power and panicked flare of the last stream of ranting, but Dash guessed comprehension dawned somewhere mid-stream, a fraction of a second after the first word, because following that both Tucker and his words stilled. Then, very cautiously, Tucker's grip lessened, and carefully, so as not to further agitate his already somewhat-riled boyfriend, Dash lowered his load, setting him down on the narrow bench before them and raising his eyebrows in good-natured amusement.

"Okay?" he asked, forced into a crouch because Tucker's arms had never quite relinquished full possession of his neck, and, as if snapped from a reverie, Tucker suddenly looked aptly abashed and dropped his hold, tucking his hands hastily back into the warmth and safety of his own clothes instead.

"We…lived," he observed, still managing to sound stunned when he said it, and Dash, standing and reaching his hands behind his head in a lethargic stretch, nodded.

"Yup, we sure did," he agreed, and Tucker pursed his lips.

"You really shouldn't have done that, though…"

"Ah," Dash plopped down on the bench, earning him a blink and a stare before he propped up a foot on his knee and began working on his laces, "and how come?"

"Umm…'cause it was _dangerous?_" Tucker suggested, and Dash huffed.

"It was easy," he said, meaning it.

Tucker looked dubious. "I'm heav-"

"You're not."

"A _body_ in general, even one _you_ might think is light, is still heavy," Tucker insisted, "…err, you know, relatively speaking, and…a lot…could have gone wrong? I mean, what if you'd lost your balance, or twisted your ankle or tripped on something or…"

Dash finished with his second skate and reached under the bench for the bag they'd stored there, fishing out his original shoes and a fresh, dry pair of socks. "I've been skating since I was five," he said, tugging on one of the aforementioned socks, "and you don't weigh much more than a heavy sack of laundry, so…" He passed over Tucker's shoes as he spoke, "trust me…" Tucker accepted the offering with a raised eyebrow, "…it wasn't that hard."

"Mm." Tucker still sounded less than convinced, but at least the utterly distraught phase seemed to have ended, and Dash caught the budding stages of a smile. "So…that's a common method of getting people where you want them, then? You know, just up and cart them off and plop them down wherever looks good at the time?"

Dash snorted, but smiled as he shook his head. "Nah…" He stood, snatching up the bag and offering Tucker a hand up, which he took, "…only the ones I like," and, with the perfect opportunity practically dangled in front of him, Dash bent forward, closing his mouth over whatever reply might have followed.

It crossed his mind – briefly, as Tucker's fingers twitched a fraction tighter into his own and a short, breathy sound of surprise broke against his lips – that they _were_ in a public place, in broad daylight, and that if anyone happened to walk by, they would undoubtedly get a free eyeful of gay, teenage tonsil hockey at its prime, whether they liked it or not. But then, though Tucker's lips were chilled, his tongue was hot, and the contrast was fascinating, and really, there weren't that many people around at this hour anyway, right? Besides, if they _really_ didn't want to see anything, well, they didn't have to watch, did they?

It was that sort of logic that allowed Dash to justify slipping his spare hand up and catching Tucker's waist, tugging him in a notch closer and fitting their chests and hips together, dipping his tongue back into an open mouth and decidedly ignoring the rest of the wide world in general. For now, it could think what it liked.

Of course, soon enough practical problems made themselves evident, and Tucker raised the valid point that most modern vehicles – including the truck Dash had driven over in – were not only more private and capable of being locked on all sides, but also typically came equipped with wonderful pieces of technology known as heaters, and relocating to such a location might be wise on several fronts.

Thus, some ten minutes later, Dash sat in the backseat of his truck – or, rather, his dad's truck, which his mother had insisted he drive after catching sight of a newscast on snowstorms farther north and deeming his sports car 'unsafe' despite the fact that there was barely a half inch of snow on the ground and none on the roads – with his coat, jacket, scarf, hat, gloves, and shoes all discarded, scattered haphazardly across the front seat and dashboard, and Tucker, in a similar state of semi-undress, straddled across his lap.

All in all, he thought, a pretty favourable situation.

"You should…tell your mom…thanks," Tucker mumbled into his mouth, his hands splayed out on the seat cushions to either side of Dash's head, and while multi-tasking making-out and talking didn't always produce the most favourable of results, Tucker would be the one to try to perfect the art. "This truck 'as…lots'more, umm…mm…" The sentence took a half-second coffee break when Dash's hands breached the lower hem of his Tucker's shirt, and the words, "…wiggle room…" came out notably less stable than those that preceded them.

"Mm…mhm," Dash hummed in perfunctory agreement, decidedly more focussed on the path of his thumbs as they traced just above the waistline of Tucker's pants, mapping smooth skin while simultaneously seeing if he could just get a hold of—there. Finding what he wanted, he smirked. "Totally," he concurred again, this time slightly more intelligibly, and he strung his fingers securely through Tucker's belt loops, giving a curt tug the next second that dragged his boyfriend's significantly slighter figure a good inch or two closer and enticing a nice, middle-octave sound from his throat that made Dash's pulse sing its praises. "Also leaves us with a lot more, mm…" He dropped one hand from Tucker's waist and gave the cute, shapely ass beneath it a complimentary grope, "…access room," and Tucker made a sort of noise few teenage boys would willingly fess up to making.

He made it sound fucking hot. If Dash's answering growl bordered on possessive, then the quick, compulsive nip he gave Tucker's neck the moment after undeniably fell under that label. When Tucker shivered, he licked the spot, kissed it, and then smirked against it.

"Cold?" he asked, and Tucker groaned.

"You…" he hissed, and the tone was well-deserved.

_Obviously_, he wasn't cold – since the windows had long since fogged, the heater was on full, and their bare fingers and toes no longer showed any signs of their previous extended exposure to the great, frigid outdoors – but a moment after opening his mouth, Tucker appeared to rethink his line of attack, and, mid-flow, he abandoned his verbal comeback altogether.

"What-" Dash started to ask, but for once, it was _his_ sentence that never made it.

"You know," Tucker said softly, and he paired the words with an agonizingly light kiss to Dash's jaw, "if I gave _you_ a hickey…" Another soft, brushing kiss teased his skin, just below the first, "…there wouldn't be a soul who wouldn't notice…" and Dash worked _very_ hard not to wriggle – or whine, for that matter. Yeah, whining was bad. "I don't think I ever have, though…" Tucker mused, his I-might-as-well-be-talking-about-the-weather tone belied entirely by the placement of his next kiss – at the junction of Dash's neck and jaw – and the addition of a teasing flick of something hot and _moist_ into the equation.

Dash made a valiant effort to swallow as discreetly as possible.

It was a difficult undertaking, considering someone was, you know, right there, at his throat, kissing and _licking_ it.

"You, umm…you know…" he tried in earnest, but then the presence of a palm at his thigh made itself known, and an irrational amount of heat seemed to gather immediately through his jeans in its wake, trailing the touch without falter as it moved up his leg with purpose. And about there, the rest of his sentence became a choking hazard. So, he ditched it and focussed on breathing instead.

"Hmm…what was that?" Tucker queried innocently enough, again ruining the effect by dropping the words gradually down along column of Dash's throat, this time mingling the occasional nip into the process, and when Tucker's hand stalled, maybe an inch from its destination, Dash made a sound _he_ wasn't entirely proud of, his legs twitching farther apart of their own accord, as if begging for the continuation of the recently denied attention. He blushed at his own reaction.

"Y…umm…n-nothing," he responded weakly and _felt_ the curve of Tucker's smile against his neck. When he shivered, the smile broadened to a grin.

"Cold?" Tucker asked, and Dash groaned aloud.

"You-" he growled more than said, but before the thought went anywhere, Tucker's mouth moved up and his hand moved in, and suddenly Dash had nipping teeth and soft lips closing over his earlobe and confident fingers and a warm palm closing over the strained tent in his jeans, and very abruptly, the concept of removing clothes completely from the picture, dragging Tucker to the front seat and forcing it back into full recline for space, and then immediately proceeding to fuck him madly into the dash board became among the most intoxicating he'd ever experienced.

He reminded himself it was his father's truck. It didn't help.

"Fuck," he panted. "_Tucker_…"

"Yeah?" came the breathy response, and Dash grit his teeth, all but grinding into Tucker's palm now and fixing his own hands to Tucker's hips in an offhanded attempt to keep them from otherwise misbehaving themselves.

"I shouldn't…" He swallowed hard on a moan, lashes fluttering low of their own accord as Tucker's thumb teased his zip, "…let you…" but Tucker stopped just short of providing any sort of relief, and Dash barely suppressed a whine. "Fucking hell…"

"Yes?" Two fingers traced up the ridge in his pants – lightly, but not so lightly that it didn't set fire to his lungs – and then Tucker wriggled, shifting his weight on the seat and dropping yet another kiss between Dash's neck and shoulder. "Shouldn't let me what?" he asked. "And better yet…" Finally, _finally_ Tucker popped his snap, and Dash's head fell back to the cushion, eyes scrunching shut, "…why not?"

"I shouldn't-"

_Both_ of them started, but it took Dash less than half a second to recognize his ring tone, and though he couldn't be positive, of course, he was pretty sure he utilized more curse words in the following ten seconds than he had over the course of the past three days combined. After a short scramble to reach around Tucker, snatch his jacket, and drag it in from the front seat, Dash – still grumbling swears – dug into the front pocket and nabbed the offensive piece of technology. He held the power button until it shut off.

"There," he grunted, stuffing it back in its place and tossing his jacket a little more forcefully than necessary back to its former position, strewn amongst the rest of the abandoned winter wear. "Fucking bastard."

Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

Dash scoffed an impartial, "Iono," as he shrugged. "Didn't look and don't give a damn anyways. Whoever it was, they shouldn't have interrupted me…"

"Uh huh…"

"I'm sure it wasn't important," he defended stubbornly, "and…" Under Tucker's scrutiny, he trailed off. Finally, blushing, he grumbled, "Okay, _what?_"

"Nothing…" Tucker was smiling. "You know, it's just, it could have-"

Dash leaned forward, catching behind Tucker's neck to drag him in and growling a low, "Man, shut _up_…" in the fraction of a second before their lips collided, and apparently Tucker deemed that reason enough to follow through with the order, because his sentence went forever unfinished.

The kiss, for reasons beyond Dash, turned surprisingly rough startlingly quickly, their teeth clicking at one point and a small sound of Tucker's dissolving into it a moment later, as if both of them were trying their utmost to prove beyond any shadow of a doubt that yes, they were back to _this_, and the time for thinking about anything else was very much over.

"You know, I _think_…" Dash moved his spare hand down, catching Tucker's knee and then sliding his palm up, along the length of Tucker's thigh and in, "…before some _dumbass_ decided to interrupt us…" Tucker swallowed when Dash's hand stalled, "…you were busy doing something…"

"I, umm-mm…yeah?" came the response, noticeably breathier and more distracted than his last utterance. "Well…" He leaned back in, catching Dash's mouth again in an only slightly less frenzied manner, nursing a bruised lip with his tongue and running his hand back up, just short of its former position, "…I believe _you_," he said over Dash's groan, "were also talking about something…something you shouldn't be letting me do?"

"Oh, uhh…right, I—ahh, shit…"

His answer met with a swift – but very explicable – delay when Tucker made sudden, quick work of his zipper, maneuvered past his boxers the next second, and effectively put everything but Dash's sex hormones on temporary rudimentary lockdown, momentarily starving his already partially-handicapped brain of much-needed red blood cells as they flooded entirely too enthusiastically to other areas.

"Was…gonna _say_," he half panted, wrestling with something like primal instinct for the control and concentration necessary to connive his vocal cords into creating lucid, intelligible sentences, "…you shouldn't…" He bit his lip, fighting another shudder as Tucker's hand found a pace, and – leaning in to wage his own war against _Tucker's_ buttons, zip, and boxers and start reciprocating al-damn-ready – he wondered in passing if it would be worth the added inconvenience of shifting and repositioning to demand that they just do away with everything any-part cotton or polyester and obtrusive from the waist down entirely and be done with it. Then Tucker's thumb swirled up and over the head, and Dash buried a, "Fucking_hell_, shouldn't let you make me wanna bend you over just about anything in this whole damn _truck_ so fucking bad…" halfway between Tucker's neck and shoulder.

And, well, _that_ induced a nice little reaction. Namely, Tucker's grip stuttered a beat, his breath catching up for half a moment, and the rush of heat to his cheeks made a difference significant enough to feel.

When he swallowed, Dash heard it, "Y…yeah?" and Dash smiled into his neck, dropping a kiss there and then darting his tongue out to taste and relishing in the way Tucker's hands lost their rhythm the instant he did.

"Yeah," he purred, giving his next stroke an added twist and savouring the way Tucker's body gave a constrained jerk, arching into it and grip twitching, and Dash absently wondered if leaving another hickey on his boyfriend's neck would earn him a reprimand. It'd probably be worth it anyway.

"And…" Tucker drew a sharp breath, freezing completely for one precious moment as Dash opened his mouth against his neck – kiss, lick, suck, nip – and Tucker made a soft, muted sound, his spare hand fisting into the front of Dash's shirt and clinging, "…and why, umm…" His voice was deliciously off-kilter, shaking like the last, stubborn autumn leaf on a weathered oak, "…w-why not?"

Dash muffled a huff against Tucker's shoulder. "'Cause…" '…_you deserve better than that? This means more than that? No way I take your virginity in an F350 that's not even __**mine**__?_' "…just, umm…" He kept his face tucked into Tucker's shoulder – _not_ because he was blushing, "…just 'cause," he mumbled, but Tucker caught him when he ventured to look up, pinning him with that curious, seeking look that left no doubt that he knew there was more to it than that, and Dash's blush resurfaced. "It's just…it's 'cause it's a _truck_, you know?" he excused himself rather ineloquently. "You shouldn't…I mean, you should have a _bed_…at least…well, like…you know, the first time and all, and…I don't wanna-"

Tucker kissed him.

Light and quick, it ended almost before it began, but he was smiling when he pulled back. "You," he accused softly, in a voice that matched his smile, "are a closet romantic. You know that, right?"

"Hey," Dash hastened to object, "I was just-" but then Tucker kissed him again – this time with significantly more insistence – and started doing things with his hands that reminded him they both had jobs to do. So, after very little debate, he opted to temporarily sacrifice that negligible amount of dignity for the higher cause of sexual satisfaction, and few intelligible things were uttered beyond that point.

Ten minutes later, after both parties' interests had been attended to, Kleenex had been utilized to assure that Dash's father _hopefully_ wouldn't notice anything remiss, and clothes – for the most part – had been wrestled back into some semblance of order, Tucker, stretched out in slothful repose with his back tucked into Dash's chest and hand laced neatly through Dash's fingers on his stomach, nudged his head up and voiced a muffled question, to which Dash responded, "Hm?" in a wordless request for a repeat. Tucker obliged.

"Was your first time in a bed?"

'_Oh_,' Dash thought, '_that_,' and scrunched his eyes shut. "No…it was, ummm…" He lifted the hand not twined between Tucker's fingers and stomach to his face and stifled a prolonged yawn, "…ina'lwnch'r…" and Tucker shifted in his hold, rearranging himself in order to tilt his head back and toss Dash a bemused glance.

"In a _what_ launcher?" he repeated incredulously, and Dash blushed.

"In. A. _Lawn_. Chair," he said again, slower, and at Tucker's look, he expanded on it. "You know, the kind that you have at cook-outs? Backyard barbeques? House parties? They fold up and stuff, and-"

"Yeah, I know what one _is_," Tucker cut in. "I just—_really?_"

Dash looked abashed. "What?" he grunted. And then, "Okay, look, see," he started to qualify, "it wasn't my _fault_-"

"Not-" Tucker scoffed.

"-_or_ my idea!" he finished, and Tucker blinked.

"It…wait," He frowned, "what?"

"She sort of," Dash motioned his hands in vague, non-descript circles, reminiscent of his expression, "climbed into my lap, and-"

"Wait, _who?_"

"-she was," Dash snorted at Tucker's interjection, "like hell if I remember her name—totally drunk-"

"_You don't even remember her_-"

"She was my cousin's friend!" Dash blurted defensively.

"…"

Seeing that that excuse wasn't winning him any sympathy points, Dash groaned and dropped his head back, taking a breath to gather his thoughts.

"Okay, look," he started again, fully aware now that it would take a complete narrative to get his story across straight, "it was summer, and she—my cousin, that is—had come down for a visit, like to see family and her fiancée and shit or whatever…and she wanted to throw a party." It was a pretty distinct memory, but it still surprised him how easily the words came once they started flowing. "I was fourteen, then, but her deal was she said I could drink and participate and stuff, and even invite some friends of mine, if I let her use our house, my house, while my parents were out—and not tell, of course—and my parents were gonna be out for almost the next month and I figured it'd be fine, so of course I _did_—let her use the house, that is…

"And so she invites like…fifty something girls from her sorority and a pile of frat guys, which wasn't really surprising, but you know, whatever, it was a lot of people, so…by midnight or something of course no room in the house was safe anymore—I mean, unless you _wanted_ to walk in on someone else getting their amateur porn on, and I _didn't_—so I'd gone outside, 'cause I was feeling dizzy from beer since I wasn't real used to it still back then and, yeah, sure as hell didn't wanna spend the rest of my night watching a bunch of strangers fucking in my house, and anyway, so I'd sat down, mindin' my own damn business and not ten minutes in, this girl stumbles out…and even if I'd seen her before there wasn't any way I was gonna recognize her at that point 'cause for one I didn't really give a damn, and for another she was pretty obviously totally washed up…

"So anyway, she comes out and she says something to me, but I don't remember what it was…or maybe I couldn't tell at the time even, whatever, but yeah, still obvious she was sloshed off her ass…and so when she first sort of fell on me, I'd kina thought, you know, maybe it was like an accident or something? And I was gonna help her off me in case she was like about to puke, you know, and I didn't want that…but then she started mumbling something about me being hot—and that kina made me pay more attention—and then asking how _old _I was—and I don't remember if I lied or not, or maybe I didn't even answer, but it sure as hell got me listening if I wasn't before—and finally, I mean, by the time she was asking if I'd ever had sex before, and…you know, opening my pants and winding her hands inside all at the same time it was…" Tucker was openly staring by that point, "…well, yeah. I mean, that was, umm…that was pretty much it," Dash finished, and Tucker gaped.

"That was _it?_" he reiterated, incredulous. "What do you mean 'that was it?' That's…" He shook his head, "…so…not…_fair,_" he groaned, theatrically woebegone, and flopped back down with a dejected pout, folding his arms and leaving Dash totally at a loss.

"Not…fair?" he repeated after a moment, and Tucker threw dubious a glance upwards.

"Uhh…_yeah_," he emphasized. "You had sorority girls…_college girls_, Dash…_climbing_ on top of you…when you were fourteen! Does that not strike you as something other guys just _might_ be envious of?"

"Err…" Dash blinked, "…well, yeah…I mean…I guess, if you say it like that, but…" He frowned, "I mean…" he spoke softer now, "…it really wasn't all that _special_…"

"Special…?" Tucker parroted, blank-faced.

"I…th-that is, what I meant was…" Dash shut his eyes again, yet another blush blossoming in full across his cheeks, "…she just…_smelled_ funny, okay? And I was _tired_, and kind of sick feeling, and I'd always sorta thought…I mean, yeah, sex is great and all and it's fun to do it whenever and wherever, but when you haven't _ever _done it before, I just thought…I mean like before I ever had, I'd thought…I mean, I was imagining something that…you know…would have maybe, you know, meant…" He petered off. This sounded moronic. He was making a fool of himself. Obviously. He swallowed. "You know what, umm, never…" He looked away, "…nevermind…it's stupid."

A long, agonizing pause stretched between that moment and the one where Tucker finally ventured a tentative, "Dash…?"

The expression Dash found when he summoned the nerve to look startled him beyond words, because of all the possible reactions he might have expected to face, _guilt_ was certainly not among them.

"Umm…yeah?" he said at last, and watched with sudden rapt attention as Tucker's lower lip disappeared between his teeth – a look that Dash now immediately translated to mean something along the lines of, "I'm thinking now, give me about two seconds to get back to you…" – and sure enough, a moment later Tucker let out a careful breath.

"I'm sorry," he said first, surprising Dash, but he obviously wasn't finished. "I guess my reaction…I mean…" He paused, backing up to reword himself, "I _know_ my reaction made it seem like I thought the whole experience must have been totally great and positive, and…well, that _was_ my first thought because, honestly, us normal, passably-decent and/or marginally unattractive guys in the world-"

"You're not unattrac-"

"-don't even _try_ to convince ourselves that a hot girl would _actually_ throw herself on us like that," Tucker barrelled on over his interruption, "…even if we might, you know, sometimes have fantasiesaboutit, _but_…I didn't mean to give off the impression that I don't think sex should ever be important…" Here, Tucker's words started to slow, losing their initial, tumbled urgency and toning down into something more – Dash tried to pin it down – thoughtful, he supposed, "…or even that it shouldn't probably be important most of the time…and _definitely_ the first time, so…" Another, longer pause filled in here, "…I'm sorry for that, too," Tucker finished sincerely. "Really…what she did not only wasn't fair to you, or as fantastic as I might have initially assumed…but…" The thoughtfulness returned, but this time with an edge of something else to it, something rougher – irritation, or frustration perhaps? "Well, it was _dangerous_, too, and, you know, on some really technical level…since you were underage _and_ inebriated…I'm pretty sure that classifies as…well, rape, of some sort. She could have had a sexual disease, or gotten you—err—I mean, you could have gotten _her_ pregnant…and then what? If-"

"Yeah, Tucker, she could have gotten me pregnant," Dash cut in, smirking, and officially broke the sudden, unexpected air of weighted seriousness Tucker's impromptu speech had taken on, dispersing it as quickly as it'd come. Tucker twisted in his hold just enough to elbow him – _reasonably_ playfully – but Dash still grunted. "Hey, _oww_-"

"Big baby…and a butthole at that," Tucker accused, "you know exactly what I meant…" and Dash grinned down at him.

"Yeah," he admitted, "I know…"

"I just…" Tucker sighed. "I meant…I'm sorry that your first time sucked…and I'm sorry for immediately reacting like it was great…okay?"

"Okay," Dash mumbled, still smiling, and he tucked his head against Tucker's shoulder. Then, he smirked. "But…I mean, you know…I didn't say it _sucked_…" he clarified, "…I just said it wasn't what I'd been hoping for…she _was_ hot."

Tucker groaned loudly, and Dash just managed to squirm out of another elbow to the gut, laughing. "You-" Tucker started to accuse, but Dash rolled, initiating a brief period of awkward resituating and limb tangling until very abruptly, "_Eep_," Tucker made a short, startled noise, suddenly flat on his back, and Dash grinned wickedly down at his pinned captive. "Th-that," Tucker started, "wasn't…" Dash leaned in, "…at all…" and kissed him. He shut up.

It lasted significantly longer than expected.

It was as if, without the silent push to be 'getting on with things' and 'moving forward' to bigger and more pressing ventures, time could finally be excusably devoted to _just_ kissing. And it was nice. Really, really nice, actually, Dash thought, and – in a few ways that he wouldn't delve too deeply into for the moment – very…intimate. Unexpectedly intimate, but not, he realized belatedly, unwelcomely so.

He _liked_ 'just' kissing Tucker. He liked just _being_ with him, lying with him, tasting him slowly, and feeling him breathe. And it was easier, this way, too, to pick up on those small, easy-to-miss details that so often flit by too fast to catch under more rushed circumstances.

Like, for instance, the tiny hitch in Tucker's paced breathing when Dash's thumbs happened to meander in and brush over his inner wrists, serving as a worthwhile reminder that he was sensitive there. Dash then, of course, naturally proceeded to trace slow, lazy circles over the smooth skin there, and collected Tucker's soft, breathy shudder and stoked heart rate as his own personal reward for keen observation. Overall, the feeling of overwhelming _closeness_ was intoxicating, in many ways, and heady and dizzying, in others, but also warm, and encompassing—and hopelessly addicting.

It reminded him, though, perhaps a little too potently, of his last extended conversation with Kwan on the subject, or, more specifically, his own argument that he was not, in fact, _that_ 'emotionally attached' – and though that wasn't technically the exact phrasing used at the time he _certainly_ wasn't about to risk toying with the deceptively simple little word Kwan had actually used. In any case, it was that seed of uncertainty that eventually prompted his reluctant withdrawal.

Lying over Tucker, and watching with quiet, captivated fascination as dark eyelids blinked lazily upwards once more, Dash found himself suddenly and jarringly reminded of a moment, more months ago than he could be bothered to count, when he'd loomed over the same face, in a cold parking lot, and watched him breath mist for many long seconds only to finish the night _without_ kissing him.

The foreboding temptation this time, though, of course, was not to kiss him – because he could do _that_ again without qualm – but to say something, to convey, somehow, the warm, curling, catching feeling that stuck in his throat and gathered in his gut like bottled wildfire every time he found himself in Tucker's presence, the one that dizzied his mind and turned breathing into an intricately complicated endeavour. The words itched at the back of his conscience, aching to be voiced, and managed, after much laborious struggle, to force themselves to the tip of his tongue.

"I…" he started.

Tucker tilted his head, smiling curiously and waiting, but something greater than anxiousness and spontaneity held Dash's tongue, curbing his admittance moments before its eruption, and eventually Tucker raised his eyebrows, his smile growing just a fraction. "What?" he asked, a hint of playful teasing unmistakably present, and Dash swallowed, as if unspoken words really could catch in one's throat, and blushed.

"It's, umm…nothing," he excused himself poorly, and Tucker rightfully snorted, propping himself onto his elbows on the seat as Dash sat back and up.

"Uh-huh," he responded. "Yeah, that's _totally_ what that was," he agreed, the good-humoured glint behind his glasses successfully making it the most light-hearted sarcasm Dash had ever experienced from Tucker, and though he huffed in response, he failed to suppress a smile.

"Yeah, well, okay, so maybe not," he admitted. "I guess I just…" He trailed off as he watched Tucker sit up, eyes flicking to the familiar movements as he rearranged his glasses and settled himself in his seat, and without meaning to, "I really missed spending time with you…more than I realized…" not only left his lips, but came out baldly serious.

They halted Tucker in his tracks, apparently surprising him almost as much as they surprised Dash. A short pause dangled between them – empty, waiting – then, just as Tucker visibly recovered the composure necessary to open his mouth for a response, Dash cleared his throat, probably more loudly than necessary, and snapped the thin silence.

"So, umm…what did you mean when you said I was inhibited…?"

That threw Tucker off in a different way, and he frowned, puzzled. "Umm…what?"

"You said I was underage and inhibited?" Dash prompted and watched comprehension dawn.

"_Oh_," said Tucker, and then, "no. I said you were _inebriated_," he clarified, and it was Dash's turn to frown.

"Oh," he said, and thought, '_Great_,' without much enthusiasm. He didn't even want to _try_ repeating that. Apparently, it was obvious.

"It means drunk," Tucker explained, smiling without a hint of ridicule. "Sorry…I probably should have just said drunk," he conceded, kindly not pursuing the fact that Dash had suddenly and _obviously_ changed the topic without any clear motivation. It saved Dash the trouble of either stumbling over a much greater number of clumsy, empty excuses _or_, heaven forbid, confronting the very topics he was pointedly avoiding. He silently thanked Tucker for that. He also wondered how anyone could possibly think it was a good idea to make such a long and complicated word mean 'drunk,' and voiced that thought aloud. It earned him a nice laugh, and then a smile, and then a kiss, and then the topic moved on.

Eventually it was regretfully noted that the hour was late and that Dash really should probably check back to see who had called, and too soon for his tastes, Tucker was bundled back up, standing outside the door of his own car, and breathing mist. They shared a kiss – one that arguably lasted a tiny bit longer than what might have nominally been deemed standard for one of the goodbye-at-the-door sort, if anyone kept track of such things – and then, in the fraction of a moment where Dash decided there was really no other possible excuse to linger any longer, Tucker caught his wrist as he turned.

"Hey, wait," he started strong, but faltered as soon as Dash complied and stilled, turning back to face him. He blushed, cleared his throat with grim determination, and levelled his eyes solidly with Dash's. "I just wanted to say that…or, really, that is, I wanted you to know that I, umm…" His lip dipped once between his teeth, just barely – a reflexive, compulsive movement to buy time as he summoned his nerve – and then he said, with easily as much sincerity as Dash had earlier, "I missed you, too."

All things considered, Dash deemed that day a success.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry if I got your hopes up at the start for it being "that" M-rated chapter. Not yet. ;) But we are getting closer. Like I said, this chapter was pretty much pure fluff and/or relationship development, because I figured they'd worked hard enough to deserve a little of that, and if you didn't think the mature content was "as mature" as usual, well, maybe it wasn't, but the plain truth is, I didn't plan on it being in there at all. They were just…stubborn. And overly playful, so to speak. I'm also trying to build up the desire to write porn so that by the time they actually go all the way, it will be done to the best of my ability and come out (hopefully) as satisfying as possible.

I'm posting today (as opposed to the seventh) because I figured the first of the month would a be a good, easy-to-remember date to stick to. That, and I'm impatient, but we'll ignore that small detail for now. Life has also been rather stressful lately and I thought posting, getting some feedback, and otherwise trying to keep up my writing spirit would be good for me as a relaxant. We'll see.

P.S. Dash's tale of his first time was inspired by a true story, just so you know. (One I heard, not one I experienced. D:)

P.P.S. This chapter, like all the rest, is un-beta'd, so small typos and/or a few awkward sentence structures are bound to be in evidence.

Oh! And, sorry, another poll. Not that I'm not already pretty sure myself how I'm going to do it, but, if _you_ got to choose, who's perspective would you like to see their first night together told from? :P Tucker, Dash, toss up? I always wonder if the readers have a preference between the two (like, if you think I write one better than the other).


	18. Disclosures

**Chapter Eighteen:**

Disclosures

Tucker planned on filling Sam in. Soon.

It was just that the _right_ opportunity never seemed to present itself. And then, one day, it did.

"-which is _ridiculous_," she was saying heatedly, taking a vicious stab at a rather dismal looking blob of what was probably supposed to be broccoli as she spoke, as if the green, soggy-looking piece of ex-plant life were secretly the true villain in her rant, "because even if he's an A-lister he's still human, and some of those jokes are just cruel, by any standard. Even if he _was_ gay-"

"He is," Tucker cut in, reaching for his carton of chocolate milk, and Sam stalled.

She blinked at him. "What?"

"Dash is gay," Tucker said matter-of-factly, and took a loud slurp, only to discover disappointingly that there was almost none left. He pouted. "Damn. They really need to give us mo-"

"Just because a guy has a teddy bear collection doesn't make him gay, Tucker," Sam cut him off, sounding irritated. "And part of my _point _is that stereotypes like that are just-"

"No," Tucker cut in. "I mean he's really, _really_ gay…" He paused for a moment. Then, "Are you gonna finish-" he started to ask, but Sam glared.

"Tucker, you can't possibly-"

"I'm dating him, Sammy," Tucker said without inflection. "So, yeah, I think I know. Are you gonna finish your fries?" he asked. "Because-"

"You're not serious…"

Tucker spared her a cursory glance, noting the blank, unimpressed stare and incredulously quirked eyebrow in a single pass. At length, he sighed. "Uhh…_yeah?_ I'm _hungry?_" he emphasized. "And it didn't look like you were eating them anyway, so I thought if they were just gonna go to waste otherwise you might as well-"

"_Dash?_" she half-squeaked, and Tucker figured it was his turn to quirk an eyebrow. She shook her head. "No, seriously, Tucker, if this is a joke…" She trailed off. "You're _gay?_"

Option one: "Yes" – not entirely true, but passably so, and had the bonus of probably ending the conversation reasonably quickly and cleanly. Option two: "No" – truer, but also slightly more confusing, and more likely to lead to a longer, more awkward explanation of his specific sexual interests and possibly unpleasant talk of failed past relationships. Option three: stall.

Tucker poked at a lettuce leaf on his tray, pushing idly it over to make a leafy green hat atop the mashed corn in the far corner pocket, neither of which he planning on eating.

"_Tucker_," Sam insisted more sternly, and he looked up, "you're _not_ gay…" she said decisively, and to her right Danny made a sort of hybrid between a choking and snorting sound, earning him two, simultaneous glares – albeit for different reasons. In any case, he immediately raised his hands in silent surrender. Sam sighed, turning her attention back to Tucker. "Tucker…just because you can't get a girlfriend-"

"Oh,_ ouch_, Sammy," Tucker whined, pulling a wounded wince and lifting a hand to his heart with histrionic flare. "You know that one hurts," He tapped his chest, "…right here…" and at least Sam had the decency to blush.

"I-I didn't mean…" Her cheeks continued to darken, and a moment later she glanced down, fingers twitching up to fold a strand of dark hair nervously behind her ear as she mumbled, "That came out wrong, I'm sorry…" significantly softer than anything she'd said thus far.

Tucker gave a non-descript, "Mm-hmm…" but then decided to have mercy and rolled his eyes with a, "Well, you know…I mean I might be more inclined to _accept_ that apology and all its sincerity if you made a peace offering of sorts…like, say, those fri-"

"Oh, for-"

"_Yesss!_" Tucker whooped as Sam shoved over the remainder of her fries, her lips thinning tightly, but simultaneously curving stubbornly upwards as if, despite what appeared to be her best effort to keep them straight, they refused to cooperate. Then, Tucker tossed her a jester's grin, and the tight set of her jaw relaxed, her eyes softening for a single fleeting moment before she promptly rolled them and looked away; her smile lingered.

"You're so…" she started huffily.

"-witty?" Tucker provided, still grinning. "Charming?" He leaned back some. "Irresisti-"

"-_hopeless_," Sam finished, levelling him with a stare, but the spark in her eyes and teasing in her smirk belayed any seriousness in her tone, and Tucker waved her off. "But, so…" She appeared to be ready to get back on topic, "…you _are_ serious, but…why didn't you tell us _sooner?_ You couldn't have thought we wouldn't accept you, or that we'd…"

Around the time she said "us," Tucker's eyes flicked unthinkingly to Danny, and as Sam noticed, her words trailed, her eyes following his stare. Suddenly the center of attention, Danny blushed, sitting up some.

"Oh, yeah, right," he came in awkwardly, looking like he wanted to cough into his fist to clear his throat or possibly sink under the table and disappear altogether. "Sure, uhh…why _didn't_ you tell…_us_…sooner, Tucker?" he asked, and Tucker worked really, _really_ hard not to choke on his fry. Danny scowled. Sam, for several moments, looked puzzled. Quickly, though, being the smart girl that she was, comprehension dawned, and Tucker shook his head.

"You," Sam turned to Danny, "you've…you've _known!_"

"Dude…" Tucker put in, "remind me _never_…to have you lie for me." He narrowly escaped a kick from under the table. "I mean that was…like…_totally_ epic. You almost had me going there. Really. Aweso—_owww_…" That kick hit; he stopped talking and – inspired by a spontaneous burst of well-bred maturity – stuck his tongue out.

Sam, long accustomed to their games, ignored these antics and continued on brazenly, "How long have _you_ known? Why didn't either of you tell me? And why-"

"Hey, umm…Sam?" Tucker cut in tentatively, and she granted him an audience. "Not that I don't appreciate that you care an' all, but…I mean you know…that's a lot of questions and…it's really _not_ that big of a deal. I've only been dating Dash for, like," He swept his hands around vaguely, "a couple weeks now, tops…and I _was_ going to tell you. Well, I mean, I _did_ tell you…I was just waiting for a convenient time is all, and as for me not saying anything about being bi earlier—'cause I am bi, okay, not gay; girls are still cool—well…" He shrugged, "…I never really _planned_ on acting on the 'interested in guys' side at all…ever. It just sort of…happened…but before then I didn't figure it was even important enough to mention, I mean…you know, like, why bother? So…you, umm…you think we can move on to another topic now?"

Sam waited a moment, looking at once curious and contemplative. Then, she smiled sheepishly and looked down. "Well, okay…maybe I was making a bigger deal of it than I should have…you're right, it shouldn't have to be something to get all upset or even worked up about…I guess I was just surprised, is all, and I…" She blushed. "Well, I just…didn't want to think that you thought you couldn't…talk to me…ummm… Well, anyway," She cleared her throat, "yes. We can move on to another subject…_but_," she stressed at the last second, drawing a pout from Tucker, "there is one last thing I want you to promise…"

Tucker raised an eyebrow. "'Kay, shoot," he said. For some reason, he didn't quite trust her smirk.

"Not that I don't believe you, and all, but…" Yeah, no, he _definitely_ did not trust that smirk, "there _is_ still a chance that the two of you are just pulling my leg and having a great laugh behind my back, sooo…"

"Sam-" he started in warningly.

"I want proof," she said succinctly.

Tucker blinked. After a moment, he frowned hesitantly. "Alright, umm…and what sort did you have in mind?"

_**Later that day…**_

"…_so_," Tucker concluded, feeling more awkward than the guy caught holding bras to his chest in the lingerie aisle at Wal-Mart (not that he'd ever done that or anything), "…if you could just, you know, _tell _her that we _are_, in fact-"

"She wants proof you're my boyfriend?" Dash asked, looking unforgivably amused, hands in his pockets, and when Tucker nodded, he tossed a brief, assessing glance in Sam's direction. Then, apparently satisfied, he shrugged and stepped forward.

Before Tucker could fit a word in edgewise to _explain_, though, fingers caught his chin, tilting it up and unwittingly stilling his breath in a single motion, and with the decent of Dash's mouth onto his own scarce seconds later, Tucker's unspoken words gracelessly tripped over themselves somewhere in the back of his throat.

Perhaps, he considered hazily in retrospect, it would be wiser, in the future, to simply discard explanations altogether past the point where Dash made up his mind on which course of action he planned to take.

At least Sam believed them after that.

-:-

Tucker planned on filling his parents in, too. Eventually.

It was just, with them, it wasn't a matter of waiting for the "right" opportunity so much as it was a matter _building_ the opportunity himself, planning it, and – to a greater extent than he expected – gathering the nerve to take advantage of it.

"So, Mom…" Tucker started with purpose, stepping over the threshold into the kitchen and trying to approach as casually as possible; he almost ran into a chair. '_Great job, Tuck_. _Chair: one. Tucker: zero._' He cleared his throat. "You know, I was thinking…maybe we could have dinner together one night…you know, like a family dinner? Like we used to have…when I was younger?"

His mom stared.

He resisted the urge to look away, trying not to shift his weight or drag a hand behind his neck or appear otherwise as incredibly uncomfortable as he felt, because, really, it wasn't _that_ strange of a question…

…was it?

"Baby, you feelin' okay?" his mom questioned a second later, setting down the dish she'd been tending to and drying her hands on the nearest towel as she eyed him, speculative.

"I…_yeah_, Mom, I'm fine…" Tucker stressed, trying hard to look it. "I was just…well, there's something I, umm…I just wanna talk to you and Dad, is all…" he said, "…okay? It's not-"

"Is it Sam and Danny?"

"No, it-"

"Did something happen at school?" she asked. Her expression darkened. "Is someone threatenin' y-"

"No, Mom, no one's-"

"Did you get a bad grade on-"

"It's _not_ school, Mom," Tucker cut her off, making a concentrated effort not to stress, "and it's not Sam or Danny, and I'm _safe_. It's…" He hesitated, "…kina more a personal issue…with…somebody…"

For a drawn pause, his mother waited. Then, her brows slowly furrowed, drawing together pensively, and Tucker watched, as if the expressions themselves were as legible and informative as words themselves.

Then, finally, as if she absolutely couldn't stand it anymore, "You didn't go on off an' get some girl pregnant, did you, 'cause-"

"_No!_" Tucker burst out, exasperated, and then, immediately after, he blushed, abashed. He hadn't meant to shout. "No, Mom, I didn't…I haven't…" He shut his eyes. "Just: no. There is absolutely no possible way…that anyone is running around with my future kids. In fact," he considered aloud, "it's almost the opposite really, in a sort of…"

His mother looked very, _very _confused.

He coughed awkwardly. "Well, uh, no, actually…scratch that. I didn't mean that in a, umm…well I mean, _obviously_ it would be impossible for me to actually…_literally_ be…err…"

This wasn't going anywhere. And it was getting ridiculous.

"Baby? Do you need me to get you some medicine, or—?"

"Mom, you know that boy I introduced you to at the lake around Christmas time?" Tucker cut in, making a split-second, executive decision to simply cut straight to the point. The sooner he spit this out, the sooner it was over. "That boy I told you I was tutoring first semester?"

His mother eyed him slowly, carefully, making a clean assessment. Then, "Tucker…if you're 'bout to tell me you need'a be looked at for AIDS or some such nonsense-"

Tucker's head hit the refrigerator door. It hurt more than it made noise.

"Tucker-"

"You know what, Mom…" he started weakly without lifting his head, "…I think I'm just gonna grab a pop-tart…and go back to my room…and stagnate in sugar carbs, caffeine, and seizure-inductive gamestation lights until my brain dies, okay?"

"B-"

"_No_, alright?" he blurted suddenly. "No, no, no, NO…the biggest of all the no's…" Which wasn't exactly true, technically speaking, since, honestly, of all her previous guesses, this one was probably actually the closest to on-topic; but he wasn't about to say that, "…I don't know what you think I've been doing, but I'm not getting death threats at school, I certainly haven't been getting anyone pregnant, and I absolutely, positively, do NOT have AIDS! _Shit_, I-"

"Language-" she slipped in; he barrelled over her.

"-haven't even had _sex_ with him yet! And even if he got around before, I'm pretty sure he's not _diseased_, but even…if…" Rather abruptly, Tucker skid to a halt. His mother was blushing. Hard. He swallowed. '_Ooops_…' "Umm…" '_Hah, ha ha, __**very**__ smooth, Tuck. Really: Way. To. Go._' And somewhere, in the back of his mind, a little tiny sliver of his subconscious requested very quietly that he simply be put out of his misery now. It didn't matter how. The fridge could fall on him for all he cared. Or a meteor could strike the house – as long as it just hit him, and not his mother, who he had just explicitly come out to in probably the most outlandish and awkward and weird and _wrong_ way possible.

'_Well_…' another small corner of thought provided, '…_at least she didn't walk into your room when you had your face in Dash's_-'

Okay, so maybe there were worse ways. Whatever. Still. This was bad.

"Tucker-"

"I just wanted to tell you I was _dating_ him, okay?" Tucker half whined, half _pleaded_, and he felt ridiculous, standing there with his eyes closed and his arms tightly folded over his chest as if the moment of epic embarrassment had reduced him back to the if-I-can't-see-you-you-can't-see-me stage of toddler-hood understanding where there was some real, sagely truth in the notion that if he folded in on himself forcefully enough and really _concentrated_, he might be able to successfully make himself small enough to literally disappear altogether.

"That was all…" His voice had dropped to something just above a whisper, still whinier than he would have liked and scratchy and small, but the words were falling out of him faster than he could control anyway, and it wasn't like he could really embarrass himself much _more_, so he didn't bother trying.

"I figured you'd have wanted to know, you know…like if I were dating a girl, you'd have wanted to, so I thought it would be good to get it out there, or something…and before you ask, I'm not _gay_ – I do _like_ girls – I just…I like him, too, and it's not a teenage phase or a wild experiment or a frustrated rebellion against the rigid standards of a blinded, mass-culture society or even only because I haven't found a girlfriend yet, but because I _want_ to, and it's been going on for months, and…I…" He swallowed. "I thought you should know…is all…" He opened his eyes, but surveyed the floor, either unwilling or unable to meet his mother's stare. "I was gonna tell you…and Dad…eventually…I just…" A deep breath. "I'm sorry it came out like this."

After an aching, dragging silence, he finally forced himself to look up. It was humbling, in a way, a mother's seemingly inborn capacity to make her children feel – well – like _children_, so suddenly, so potently, and so effortlessly. Meeting her gaze, Tucker was reminded in a sweeping rush of the reverting-back-to-toddlerhood sensation, but this time intensified perhaps tenfold, and suddenly, the concept of curling into a ball and losing himself in his mother's arms and letting all the gritty, painful details of reality wash away under soothing murmurs and placating reassurances was not only there, but _intensely_ appealing.

He forced his head down and shut his eyes again, clenching his fists until the nails digging into his palms _hurt_, and he knew he should say something, or just turn away, or maybe just grab that damn pop tart and _then_-

"You wanna help me make dinner?"

Tucker's head snapped up. For a moment, he stared, thrown. _No_, he didn't want to help make _dinner._ He wanted to run _away_, to get out, to flee, to…

He thought of retreating back to the cave of his room, of wallowing in his mental turmoil or burying himself in some mind-numbing videogame until all other realities drowned out under the piercing, scraping raucous of artificial screams and gunfire. He watched his mom go back to grabbing dishes, running each one methodically one after another under the running water in the sink and scrubbing them off individually even though she would just put them all in the dishwasher afterwards anyway. He hesitated.

Dinner.

How hard could it be?

"Umm…" She didn't look up from the sink, "…sure?" Her small smile, warm and familiar, was worth – Tucker was certain – any horror that could possibly have followed.

-:-

Tucker never planned on filling in the Casper High student body in its entirety. Ever.

That one – thanks to a slight err in judgement and a couple of other things that were neither entirely his nor Dash's fault but rather some messy combination of the two – just sort of happened on its own.

"But _Mom_-"

"I'm sorry, baby, but I _did_ give you fair warnin' yesterday," his mother barrelled over what was probably Tucker's fifth or sixth objection that morning. "Your father took the Chrysler an' Susan's baby caught the flu, so she won't be carpoolin' _anyone_ around today."

When she finished rifling through her purse, apparently satisfied, she finally shrugged on the huge, thick yellow rain jacket that had hung over her forearm until then and then turned to snatch her polka-spotted umbrella from beside the door. Tucker's pout went wasted, unseen.

"This meeting's in _Dimsdale_, an' I'm already late, so…just ask one of your friends," she added as a distracted, last-ditch effort to quell his whines, checking her watch _again_ as if to emphasize her rush, but Tucker knew it was just habitual. "I'm sure Danny or Sam wouldn't mind cartin' you over to school just this once."

"But-"

His mother opened the door just in time to fill the room with a sharp, white flash that made the kitchen bulbs pale in comparison, and Tucker squinted, half-blinded, as a thundering crack followed almost immediately after.

"Mom, Danny's already…" Gushing rain drowned out most of his sentence, and "…at…school…" came out as more of a resigned sigh than anything else, his mother's final, almost-shouted goodbye already fading into the sound of the storm. He gave a half-hearted wave, and the door shut with grim finality.

Alone, he grumbled silently to no one in particular and dropped his weight against the nearest wall, glaring at the fading wallpaper across from him as if to challenge it with a silent "What _now?_" but, of course, he received no more divine inspiration than he expected. Just rain. Lots and _lots_ of-

"Dammit," he swore aloud. There was no way he let this become a repeat of the _last_ time he had to walk to school in a thunder-

'_Oh, wait_…'

Tucker blinked as memories of that _particular_ experience came flooding back – with startlingly vivid clarity, at that – and at least an idea accompanied the blush that swept up with matching alacrity.

To call, or not to call? To call, or…

Lightning split the sky outside the kitchen window, and when its answering thunderclap rattled the loose appliances, momentarily dimming all lights in the house to an eerie, muted yellow before they glowed back to life, Tucker made his decision. He flipped open his phone, took a breath, and dialled.

_One…two_…

Halfway into the third ring, an answering click came through from the other end, and a drowsy voice mumbled the rough equivalent of, "_Who s'it 'n wha'd'ou wan'_…_?_"

Tucker took a moment to process this. Then, he frowned. "Dash…were you _asleep?_"

There was some shuffling, followed by a grunt, followed by more shuffling, and then, "_Tucker_…_?_" Dash came through again, only slightly more cognizant than last time,"_Is'at…what're_…" That there, that sounded like a yawn, "…_It_'_s_…" and another, "…_early_…"

"It's seven twenty-six, Dash," Tucker said flatly, working diligently to keep the grin out of his voice. "School starts in thirty-four minutes…" His eyes flicked to the kitchen clock, "…make that thirty-three. Don't tell me I need to program your computer to wail off a fire alarm at six o'clock every morning?"

Silence.

Eventually, an amusingly uncertain, "_You couldn't_…" drifted its way over. Moments after Tucker raised his eyebrows, though – as if Dash _sensed_ the reaction, even in his groggy state – an almost whined, "…_baby, __**please**__ don't do that_…" followed, and Tucker grinned wickedly. "_Tucker_…_?_" Oh yeah, that was _definitely_ a whine.

"Alright, alright," he conceded, still smiling. "I'll have to think about it," he teased, "_but_, really, were you even _planning_ on going to school today?"

The pause stretched between them.

Rain splattered against the windowpanes. A more distant slice of thunder rolled off in the background.

Finally, "_Umm…_" and Dash sounded like he was stifling yet _another_ yawn as he said it, "_do I gotta_ _lie fer you not to do shit with my comp…?_" worked its way down the line, and Tucker resisted the urge to roll his eyes skyward. Then, "_You didn't really call me __**just**__ to wake me up, did you?_" Dash huffed, and Tucker blushed guiltily.

_'Oh, right_.'

"Oh, umm…no, actually, I…well," He toed the carpet, "I mean, if you were gonna sleep, then I can just let-"

"_I'm awake now anyways_," Dash pointed out, his voice decidedly softer and less irritated this time, and Tucker's shoulders relaxed some. He hadn't realized they'd tensed.

"Well…then, I guess I was actually kina wondering…if maybe you could…you know, umm…" He ventured the last part by far the most tentatively, "…give me a ride?" and the pause that followed was shorter than the last few.

"_Really?_" It wasn't harsh or irritated, just surprised. "_Don't you, like…have a car?_"

This time, Tucker did roll his eyes. "_Yeah_, I just…my mom's using it today," he explained, "and she didn't have time this morning to drop me off, and my dad's already at work, and Danny's already at school, and Sam rides with Danny, _so_…"

"_So you're alone in your house?_"

Tucker blinked. Well, yes, he supposed, that was one _possible_, valid conclusion a person could arrive at from the information given – if rather beside the point. A rather wary, "Yes…" was all he voiced aloud.

"…_and you want me to come over…and drive you to school…?_"

Tucker frowned, trying to figure out how this could possibly be a difficult concept to grasp. Maybe Dash was _really_ tired? "Yes, Dash…" he reiterated patiently, "I want you to drive me to school. I mean, you don't _have_ to, but I just figured-"

"_Lemme get dressed_," Dash conceded, sounding more or less completely neutral, and Tucker thought he picked up the sound of a bedspring in the background, "_but if you do change your mind and decide to ditch the book learnin' for…_" There was a pause and a shuffle of fabric; probably the donning of a shirt,"_…slow sex with your door wide open, lots of making-out and video games all day…_"

When Dash left _that _sentence hanging, Tucker swallowed, hard, wrestling valiantly for control of his suddenly slack jaw, clumsy tongue, and tight throat. He failed. Thus, a coarser-than-he-intended, "Dash-" was about all he managed to force out before said impossible distraction cut in over him.

"_I'll be there in a few, 'kay? You can decide then. Sound fair?_"

'_No_,' Tucker hissed mentally, squeezing his eyes shut, '_totally, absolutely, positively, not in the least, __**tiniest**__ little bit fai_-'

Dash hung up.

Tucker keened and sank an inch against the wall, dropping his head back and staring blearily up to the ceiling. "Really?" he whined up at it. "I mean _really?_ Not only does he get an absolutely adorable I-just-woke-up voice, but he gets to have a fucking sexy as hell _phone_ voice, too? And _then_, he has to _use_ it to-"

There was simply no justice in this world. That was the only logical answer.

Tucker sighed, pinching two fingers over the bridge of his nose and scrunching it. What did he owe school, anyway, he wondered begrudgingly; what had school ever done for _him?_

Nothing. That was what. Nothing but pile on homework, and waste his time, and…

Did that excuse skipping out for what Dash suggested?

His cheeks warmed, and he shifted his weight against the wall, nibbling his lip and trying to think through the day and assess what he might miss. English: nothing. Home Ec.: nothing. Chemistry: a small quiz, but nothing drastic. Pre-cal…

He had a make-up test in pre-calculus – the one he'd put off _twice_ already.

And besides that, he chastised himself on a more rational level, he really _couldn't_ afford to be skipping class any more than absolutely necessary due to ghost attacks anyway. It wasn't like he had a great record as it was, and Lancer had been "testy" as of late. After almost four years, who could blame him? Still…

A soft mewl erupted from somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles, and after tossing the source a passing glance and receiving another – this time slightly more insistent – meow in response, Tucker stooped obligingly. "Life's just not fair, Vader," he confided in the animal – Sam's rescue project of two years prior – running a distracted hand over its back and shaking his head. "Sometimes you can be a good guy, do _everything_ you're supposed to, and yet in the end…" Vader arched into his touch, giving a loud, satisfied purr, and Tucker rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the support, buddy," he muttered, only halfway sarcastic. "I can see you really feel my pain…"

A minute or so of petting and scratching behind the ears later, he stood back up and headed for the door, and sighing and grumbling to no one – except perhaps the cat – he snatched the last umbrella by the door, and exited.

He didn't have to wait long.

In less than five minutes, the soft purr of a well-attended engine announced his ride's arrival, and as he watched the sleek, cherry red Porsche Boxster pull smoothly into his driveway…

Well, never let it be said that Dash didn't drive a gorgeous car, too.

Then Dash parked, and when the driver's side door opened, it took Tucker half a second to react accordingly and dart over, moving in to provide umbrella coverage. Dash met this action with eyebrows raised, an amused smile playing on his lips.

"Worried I'm gonna melt?" he teased, and Tucker huffed.

"No…but it's common decency not to make someone stand uselessly out in the rain, and I thought if you were so set on getting out of your car in the first place I ought to at lea-" The rest of his sentence never made it, broken promptly off in lei of a single inhale as Dash's lips settled gently down into place over his.

"G'morning to you, too," Dash greeted, eventually, and Tucker mused silently at the physical oddity of being chilled throughout most of his body, and yet still maintaining pockets of heat – namely around the face and neck area.

"Mornin'," he mumbled back, and there was a movie out there, somewhere, he was sure of it, that had a scene just like this – well, minus the two guys part, anyway – with a dashing ('_Hah, __**dash**__ing_…' Tucker thought before he could stop it, and then mentally kicked himself) lead hero standing out in the rain and mist on a foggy morning, trapped with his romantic interest under a tiny umbrella, waiting for…

In a distracted search for _something_ to comment on, Tucker's eyes flicked to glance through Dash's window. "Sooo…I see you brought your backpack…"

Dash shrugged. "Figured you wouldn't be hot on ditchin', and since I'd be there already anyway…" He trailed off. "'Sides, you'll need someone to drive you home too, sounds like," he observed rationally, and when Tucker quirked an eyebrow, he smirked. "'Less of course you wanna _surprise_ me…and then I'm still all for-"

"I…think I should probably-"

"Go on," Dash nudged his head towards the car, not a hint of irritation in his tone, "get in," and Tucker blushed.

"You know," he hastened to add, feeling the need to qualify, "it's not because…it's not that I don't…I mean, I don't want you to think I-"

"Foley," Dash cut in, and somehow or other the use of his last name in this instance came off sounding like some slightly more playful, boyfriend's equivalent of the "_Tuckard Leonard Foley!_" his mother would use when getting ready to follow up a statement with "What on _Earth_ were you thinking?" or something similar. "Don't sweat it," Dash insisted easily, "I know I'll get mine eventually…" and it took some substantial amount of effort on Tucker's part not to gawk.

"I…y…bu-uhh…" All in all, he pretty much failed anyway. "And what's _that_ supposed to—?"

Dash slid an arm around his waist, physically _guiding_ him to the passenger side door. "C'mon, you're the smart one…" he said, opening the door for him and smirking at his thoroughly befuddled look, "…I'm sure you can figure it out."

By the time they got to school, Tucker had narrowed possible interpretations down to: a.) "Don't worry, I'll get you back for this later," b.) "It's okay, I can wait it out, and I don't mind," and c.) "You're mine, and your silly excuses don't scare me—I'll get what I want in the end." He concluded it was probably some combination of the three.

In any case, such were the circumstances that lead to the prime opportunity for an over-eager school newspaper club member to snap any number of fuzzy, extremely gossip-worthy pictures later that morning, and the following Monday, several copies of a student-printed, non-teacher-approved issue of the Casper High Weekly sported the headlines, "Rainy Rainbow Romance: Is Casper's king secretly queer?" The illegitimate paper circulated an impressive range of social circles before being appropriately confiscated.

"Well," Sam commented uncertainly, putting a blurred image of Dash and Tucker in the school parking lot, presumably lip locked under the cover of Tucker's umbrella, under intense scrutiny, "the picture _is_ really bad quality," she asserted hopefully, "…maybe no one will believe it…or at least not recognize it's y-"

A shrill whistle cut her off, and the trio turned in unison, greeted by small gaggle of lewdly grinning senior boys, another copy of the allegedly 'confiscated' article in one of their hands.

"Hey, honey," their apparent leader cooed, obviously directing the comment towards Tucker, "I hear you're into a, uhh…_new_ kinda meat as'uh late…" he purred, the observation drawing simultaneous groans and snickers from his companions. "So, y'know, figured I'd let you know…if you ever get tired of suckin' on all that _light_ meat…" Here, he cupped at his own 'package' in a bawdy, self-explanatory gesture, and winked, "…more'n yer white boy _wishes_ he had, baby!" and then, as quick as they'd come, the entire group was fleeing down the hall, a mass of groans and raucous laughter, spouts of, "Man, that's straight up _sick_," and "Gay shit ain't _right_…" floating back until their voices faded out altogether.

After they'd gone, neither Danny nor Sam looked particularly comfortable. Both, though, looked furious.

"That's-" Sam started.

"I can phase him into a landfill," Danny offered.

"_Dann_-"

"No, it's okay," Tucker cut in evenly, turning back to his locker, "I know who he is." He started putting in his combination. "I'll just transfer a couple gigs of streaming '$pAce g0aT Fu©k$ a|i3n squ!d' bestiality porn to his iPhone later…"

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, Vader is a pointless OC. My appologies. Every time I tried to write that scene, a soft mewl kept interrupting him, and he'd lean down and pet the cat, and I TRIED not to write it. I really did…it just wouldn't go away. So there you have it. I also realize that me posting this now proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I have ABSOLUTELY NO PATIENCE. *crickets* *sigh* But you see…*cue: excuses*

I was totally on a roll, writing and writing and writing…and then suddenly it just sort of petered off, and I do NOT want to go back into writer's block on this, sooo…I figured you guys wouldn't mind if I posted early, in hopes of getting some inspiration from y'all. *guilty* ^^; (Also, you guys really have been awesome about reviewing more lately and I felt bad holding back chapters that I desperately wanted to post while keeping you guys waiting. My biggest fear is running out again and stooping into another ridiculous writer's block. I want to avoid putting either myself or my readers through that again. For real. XD)

Oh, and just in case anyone couldn't read it: $pAce g0aT Fu©k$ a|i3n squ!d = Space Goat Fucks Alien Squid. Originally I had it in plain text, but looking back for some reason I thought it had a better effect in unofficial |33t speak. (I don't actually know how to really type like that, so…yeah.)

P.S. The next chapter makes me nervous. It's very…controversial? But at the same time I couldn't not write it. I…well, you'll see when I post it, I suppose. xP Till next time?


	19. Volatile Elements

**A/N:** First, Happy Halloween! Second, thank you to all my anonymous reviewers. Obviously thanks to everyone who reviews, but this site doesn't let me respond individually to those who don't log in and I wanted to express my thanks to _everyone_ who's given me feedback. I really, really appreciate it; it always helps me write and stay inspired.

Third…I probably haven't read over this chapter as many times as I should have, and it hasn't been beta'd, but…I dunno, this chapter irritates me. I would say it's **RATED M**, though, not for sexual situations but for actual nasty topics like _**HOMOPHOBIA**_ and _**RACISM**_. As part of an interracial couple, I just couldn't not touch on it. That said, I actually _still_ feel like I haven't given it the attention it deserves, but while I have the desire to play the gladiator against those kinds of things, it's hard to write about them without worrying I'll offend someone somehow in the process.

I have also, at times, been very tempted to touch on (later) the violence and _real_, _horrible_ things that gay couples (who come out or are discovered) in highschool (and everywhere) face, but again, I'm not sure if I'll know where people draw their lines on what they want to read about (and I really don't want to hurt Tucker too bad, because I'm pretty sure he'd end up being the main target…). I would appreciate some honest opinions and feedback on this, as well.

The chapter is short, the next chapter is longer, the chapter after that is a mammoth. Enjoy?

Oh, P.S. It's not particularly important to note this chapter, but it will be semi-important to understand next chapter: Tyrone (one of the OCs who you'll meet this chapter) is black. That is all. Peace, guys. :)

P.P.S. If you finish and get bored in the in-between time, check out _Simple Physics: Extras_. I'm going to be using it as a plot bunny drop box for all the stuff I can't fit into the story. It'll be unordered and possibly a little sloppy, but it'll have extra tidbits that this won't.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen:**

Volatile Elements

"Alright, alright, I got one…so, how's this…what's '_gay_' stand for?"

Dash clicked open his locker, dropping his sweat-soiled shirt, socks, and sports shoes on the bench beneath it and fishing out his change of clothes. The speaker was either a sophomore or a junior – he didn't pay much attention to the lower classes – whose name he couldn't remember, but he spoke loudly, obviously vying for attention, and his friend beside him snickered, in on the real joke immediately.

"I dunno, man," he responded just as loudly. "What _does_ gay stand for?"

"Got _AIDS_ yet," the first shot back, taking the time to turn a little more in Dash's direction when he said it, and privately, Dash sighed, clanking his locker back shut and suppressing the urge to scowl. That _was_ what they wanted, after all.

At first, the jokes had annoyed him a little – most of them totally stupid, a few verging on mildly clever, and still others downright offensive – but after a while, regardless of what the joke actually _said_, it just felt old.

The paper issue had raised a raucous of sorts, but a surprisingly large portion of the student body had either dismissed it entirely or simply hadn't given a damn one way or the other – the largest rifts taking place among the A-lister crowds, not surprisingly – and he and Tucker had more or less silently agreed to use this to their relative advantage, ignore the suppositions, and continue largely as they had before they'd even started dating, i.e.: staying out of each other's way at school.

But gossip was, unfortunately, a nearly impossible beast to kill once birthed, and among those who found it amusing to cling to the rumours, to say that things "didn't get much better" over the following weeks would have been something like saying that the three hundred pound girl at prom with the long sideburns, stubborn uni-brow, and budding moustache "didn't look that bad."

The whispers had picked up first – and the stares, of course – the sort that trickled through the halls and hummed around corners like the rustling of secret notes smuggled under desks, but hushed abruptly once caught, like a love confession gripped tightly, frozen in a nervous palm until the teacher's eye passed safely by again.

If nothing else, the various pranks showcased both most teenagers' complete lack of creativity and, on the opposite side of the coin, cruelty's occasional knack for sheer inventiveness. The breeding of gay jokes like rabbits on fertility drugs in the locker room fell under the first category.

Later, though, someone took the liberty of feeding several nice, candid shots of their dick through the grate in Tucker's locker – along with various other paraphernalia, including loose condom packets and a sheet of paper with links to gay porn sites and chat rooms for homosexuals – and Dash had thought that _that_ was sort of clever, in a kind of bawdy, disturbing way. Tucker had grimaced and brought duct tape to school the next day, slapped on several layers behind his grate, from the inside – defacement of school property be damned – and done his best to keep heavy textbooks securely stacked behind it from then on.

"Nah, nah, listen, this one's totally better…" the friend of the first speaker spoke up, and Dash stepped away from his locker to grab a towel from the shelves. "So there's these three dudes all chillin' in a hot tub, right?"

Dash's hand paused for only a second as he bit back a groan. This one _again?_

"And all three of 'em are mindin' their own business, when suddenly-"

"-a blob of jizz gurgles to the surface," Tyrone, a senior on the basketball team, cut in, just coming out from the showers, from the looks of things, and providing more of a comedian's flare to the joke than either of the first two. Apparently, they agreed, because they let him take over. "An' so all three of 'em just sit there, starin' at it for a bit…'til finally, one o' the guys sighs loudly an' says-"

"-alright, fess up," Dash grunted, taking over effortlessly, "which one of you fags farted?"

First, Tyrone raised an eyebrow, amusement tugging at his lips. Beside him, the initiators of the joke made a poor show of trying to bite back their laughter, and somewhere in the back of the room, several whines of disgust – apparently from a couple of those who actually _hadn't_ heard that one yet – made it to the front.

"Take it y've heard that one," Tyrone observed, and Dash grumbled, slinging his towel around his neck.

"Yeah," he muttered, "I've heard it…" '_Probably twenty damn times_…'

"Aww, no need to get touchy, captain…" Marcus joined in, and Dash subconsciously tensed. "We all understand a guy can get desperate for some ass every once in a while…especially after so long without…and after the way Paulina ditched you?" He tisked. "I mean…that must have struck a low blow…who's gonna blame you for being a little insecure about your sexuality after _that?_"

It was the first time anyone had launched a direct attack at him, in person.

Dash took the opportunity to size up his opponent: tall, decently built, but not heavy. Marcus would have a slight height and reach advantage, but Dash had him beat in weight and muscle mass. The locker room floor was wet, though, in places, and likely slippery. This would not be a good place to fight.

He reached up idly, gripping each end of his towel on either side of his neck, and made a show of pondering Marcus's jibe.

"Alright," he responded at length, "so…what? You want me to…say grats? For being the last guy to score the girl who's spread her legs for every member of the team before you and then some? Or…thanks? For picking up my last month's trash and keeping her out of my business while I move on with more important shit in my life?" He opted to steer completely clear of any comments relating to his sexuality. If they stuck with arguing about Paulina's choice in dicks, he figured he had a much higher chance of holding his own without resorting to deciding it with a throwdown.

Unfortunately, Marcus was wisely uncooperative. "Right," he snorted, "and _when_ do women move on? I can tell you…it's not when they're sexually _satisfied_ with their man, that's for sure…and the little detail that she pulled an eagle for all those guys _while_ with you?" Again, Marcus clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Sorry, but I just don't see how that reflects well on your…" He cleared his throat, "…how should I put this politely…'performance'…?" he finished, looking wholly pleased with himself when small snickers and whispers ghosted around them in response.

Dash decided that pointing out that technically _he_ had actually broken up with _her_ was probably an unnecessary, nitpicky detail, highly likely to backfire and make him look sore and childish. This, though, was just one of so many reasons he hated verbal sparring. He just _wasn't_ good at it. And, to be fair, Marcus had probably been planning this, at least to some extent, ahead of time, waiting for the right opportunity to shame Dash as blaringly and openly as possible—preferably in front of many witnesses. Grumbling, he settled for Plan B: when topic couldn't be avoided, turn the tables on the accusation.

"So…what's my sex life to _you_, anyway?" he retorted. "Can't blame you for being curious, but I mean…didn't know you were _interested_ in that sort of thing…"

Again, Marcus expertly avoided the pitfall. "Oh, trust me, I'm not…in fact, it sort of disgusts me, _but_…I am trying to look out for the team, here…"

Dash rarely felt powerless. The feeling terrified and sickened him. Here, though, as boys started to wordlessly gather, slowly bunching in around them – mostly edging towards the side of Marcus – he got the distinct sense that this was significantly more premeditated than he'd originally assumed, and felt control slipping as inevitably as water through cupped fingers.

"We can forgive a lot, you know…" Marcus continued, "…like when you were pretty obviously spending a good bit more than necessary 'quality time' on 'studying' last semester…but you gotta know, this is a little different…"

Dash wondered what Marcus was getting at, ultimately, and what his options were. He opened his mouth to say as much.

"Using a bottom feeder to experiment…" Marcus went on, closing off Dash's opportunity to fit a word in edgewise; he shrugged, "…no big…but getting snugly during class experiments?"

'_Okay, that was a long time ago_,' Dash mentally grumped, '_and only once_…' Unless he was talking about the time only a few days ago when they'd taken the class outside, but Tucker had been _shivering_ and-

"Missing practices?"

That also only happened once. Or possibly twice. Or, wait…

"Making kissy-face in the _parking lot_?"

Yeah, definitely a good idea to keep one's mouth shut on that one.

Marcus shook his head. "And word has it…he hasn't even given it _up_ for you, yet…"

Dash made a mental note never to tell Kwan anything. _Ever_.

"Hey, now wait a second…" Speak of the devil. "I only said that like…for, umm…" Kwan frowned, and Dash tried not to wince. "Look, it just doesn't have anything to do with anything relating _any_ of you," Kwan persisted stubbornly, making a broad sweeping gesture towards the now substantial crowd of onlookers, "alright? So just…do everyone a favour and…get off his back…"

Marcus snorted. "Well, I can see, as the only other guy we know of that he likes to make-out with, you obviously have a biased opinion…"

Dash's scowl darkened; Kwan's face warmed noticeably, and there was a rapid, hissed conference between the two of them which went something along the lines of:

"So was I the _only_ one who didn't know about that until a few weeks ago?"

"Well," Kwan looked guilty, "it sort of happened, umm…in the middle of your living room floor-"

"_What_—?"

"-and a lot of people saw! Okay? It wasn't my-"

"And you didn't think that would be at all important to _tell_ me before-"

"…_but_," Marcus continued, emphasizing the word to cut forcefully in over their spur-of-the-moment mini-convention, "you being biased or not doesn't really affect us and our legitimate concerns…"

"Legitimate?" Kwan squawked. "How the fuck is who he _screws_ a concern of-"

"Maybe we don't want a _fag_ in our locker rooms!" Marcus barked back. "Changing with us… fucking _showering_ with us, don't you think that might make a few people uncomf-"

"Oh, right! Because we _always_ climb into stalls with each other and share each other's soap and shit and heaven _forbid_ he see you the same way he's seen you a _thousand_ times before because this time he might suddenly…what? _Rape_ you? Have nasty _thoughts_ about you?" Dash felt sort of queasy. "I don't think-"

"Maybe we just don't want him ogling our asses…" Tyrone provided neutrally, and Dash scoffed.

"Right. After seeing the freaky shit you watch, Ty, I'd say I'd rather ogle a goat, but maybe that wouldn't get the message across quite right…"

Tyrone looked immediately put upon. "Hey, wait now, hold up, see…that ain't fair, 'cause…I still have no fuckin' _clue_ how that shit got on my phone. I swear-"

"The _point_," Marcus cut in, "is that the gay act was only tolerable to an extent…and we've reached it. If things don't start clearing up from here on out, stuff just won't be as simple. For you…or your little…boyfriend…you get me?"

Dash glowered. "No. I don't, actually. What is it you want me to do, huh? Tell you I'm not a fucking fag? Or say that none of the shit you've said so far is true? 'Cause so far it doesn't sound like you'd believe me, even if I did."

"Nah…you're right," Marcus conceded. "At this point…I don't think anyone would."

Dash opened his mouth.

"Which is why…" Marcus went on, "…we're gonna want a little proof that you still have your…priorities straight."

At 'priorities,' Dash's gut roiled ominously, and only Kwan's hand at his shoulder – lightly restraining – clued him in to the fact that he had, in fact, been progressively advancing over the course of the back and forth. He decided to ignore it, shrugged it off, and took another step forward.

"Alright," he growled, relishing in the first few, budding sparks of real anger, despite his best initial intentions. "Let's say I decide to play your little game. What kind of 'proof' are you looking for? But first…how about you tell me why the _hell_ should I feel I need to prove myself to _you_, anyway?"

Apparently, pissing him off was on the agenda, because Marcus looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You should care because…let's face it…you're not the self-sacrificing, hero-type. You know how to look out for yourself…and this is the last semester, of our last year. We all wanna go out looking well. To do that, though…we need a captain with his head in the game…not around some little queer's cock…"

Dash's fingers itched to fist. He reminded himself that this would be a bad place to fight.

"So if we don't think you're gonna cut it…some complaints will only be natural, but then, you know how things get around…this isn't the sort of thing you really want getting back to your parents, is it?"

Dash's eyes narrowed dangerously. "So…wait, are you seriously telling me…that your big, threatening plan…is that if I don't do what you want…you're gonna go cry to _mommy_?" He sincerely hoped his sneer showed none of his trepidation; dragging his parents into this probably was the worst of all possible outcomes, as far as he was concerned. They'd probably send him to therapy. Or boarding school. "That'll be funny…what's the big speech gonna sound like, huh? '_Oh, boo-hoo_,'" he mocked, "'_Mommy, our sport's captain drove a nerd to school, and now I think he's gay_…*sniffle, sniffle, cry, cry*'…?" At least someone laughed. That was a plus.

Marcus, unfortunately, looked disappointingly unmoved. "The thing about mommies…" he said at last, "…is that, as annoying as they can be on a day to day basis…they are really good at some things…and making a fuss when they think there's something affecting their kids at school is one of them…"

Since when did Paulina date smart guys, anyway?

"…and that's only the big threat if you really don't give a damn about what happens to your little experimentation partne-"

"If you _touch_-" Dash started vehemently, and then realized too late – as Marcus raised his eyebrows and others around the room frowned – that that outburst alone revealed more than he wanted.

"I see…so he _is_ your boyfriend, then?"

"I didn't—that's not what I…" Dash swallowed awkwardly. This was not going well. "I didn't say that," he grunted at length, the words scratching coarsely in his throat, and Marcus's eyes on him made his skin crawl.

"Alright…so how about you _say_ it," Marcus suggested coolly, "or _don't_ say it…just answer the question. _Is_ he your boyfriend?"

"He's…" Dash's heart declared violent war against the cage of his chest, his pulse clamouring up the sides of his throat like a free-climber with no fear of death and his fingers twitching – half-fisting – as his palms dampened.

Then, quite suddenly, he shook his head, bursting out with a harsh, "No! No, no, no, and just…fuck _no_, okay?" and though the words stung, bringing guilt with them as if lies came packaged with an automatic 'Tell One: Feel like shit for free' coupon stapled to the side, he persisted stubbornly anyway. "Dammit, no, he's got nothing to do with…with…" 'This' sounded too suggestive, "…_anything_, alright? So just…" Dash swallowed, "…just leave Tu—Foley out of it. If you got a problem with me, deal with me…or tell all the parents you like! But don't…" '_Don't touch Tucker. Please, please, please don't touch Tucker, or so help me_…'

Finally, Marcus frowned, as if Dash had actually managed to throw in a factor he wasn't ready for. Unfortunately, "You're…_protecting_ him?" wasn't exactly the sort of reaction Dash had hoped for.

Immediately, his cheeks burned. "No! I'm not…I was just…I meant-"

"You…you actually…" Marcus looked legitimately thrown. "Holy fucking Jesus…" It was peculiar, watching someone fight simultaneously with laughter and disgust, "…I mean, sure, I believed maybe you _messed_ with him…used him for—man, who the hell _knows_ what, and I sure don't want to, but…I honest to God never thought you were _actually_…that you were seriously…" He choked on some hybrid between a laugh and a snort. "You've gone and got yourself _whipped_…" Dash's jaw tensed, "…and by some techy little _fag!_"

Kwan's hand caught his wrist, stalling his abrupt jerk forward, and Dash stilled, willing his fist back into an open palm.

"Oh, that's _priceless_…" Marcus was snickering now, a little too low pitched to be termed giggling, though it fit the rapid, almost helpless pattern. "You…oh, man…do you guys, like, cuddle and everything? 'Cause-"

"Man, shut _up!_"

"Ooh…let me think…" Marcus tapped his chin, "…no." He smirked. "I'm sorry…is this irritating you? It's actually very uncharacteristic of you…that you're still just standing there, taking it, after all this time…"

Dash's fingers curled back in.

"Or, oh, I know…it must be that he's taught you better now, and that it's against the rules to lose your temper?" Marcus guessed. "You're doing such a good job, so far…so well-behaved-"

"Fuck you," Dash hissed.

"Dash-" Kwan blurted, and Dash knew he should drop it, just let it go, maybe even simply walk out of the room, right now, before things got out of hand. But he didn't.

"Oh, yes, very clever," Marcus said, "and listen to him, too-"

"What do you _want?_" Dash snarled, and suddenly Marcus looked very serious.

"Well…" He drew it out thoughtfully, "…there were a couple things, though now I'm not sure you'll like any of them…but I'll tell you anyway and explain in nice small, slow words so you can get the gist, how's that sound?"

New goal: Don't throw the first punch.

That was all he had to do, Dash counselled himself, repeating the mantra in his head, '_Don't throw the first punch_.'

"Basically, the bulk of what needs to has already been said: we don't feel comfortable showering with cocksuckers."

'_Don't throw the first punch_…'

"So either you can cut it to the quick now and dump your little…" Marcus made a face as he picked his words.

'_Don't_-'

"…nigger _bitch_, or-"

Dash threw the first punch.


	20. Reverb

**Chapter Twenty:**

Reverb

Of all the things Tucker expected to find after being dragged, inexplicably and with no small sense of urgency, from his last period biology class and to the principal's office, an undulating horde of students, teachers, and _police officers_, was not among them. At the sound of the spiteful jeers tossed his way as Lancer guided his approach, his stomach gave a foreboding lurch. Few things that involved angry teenagers and uniformed cops in the same relative vicinity ended well.

A female staff member, whose face Tucker only vaguely recognized from turning in many a tardy slip to, met them at the main office door. When she opened her mouth, though, Lancer cut her off.

"You may inform Principal Ishiyama, _again_," he stressed, "that I still strongly disagree with bringing Mr. Foley into this so early. Surely at _least_ the other students could have been cleared out first? _Crime and Punishment_, this situation is still _dangerous!_"

Without waiting for her reply, they moved in, and Tucker noted in a sort of off-handed manner that Lancer – whether intentionally or not – made sure to keep himself between Tucker and the crowd at all times.

By the time they actually entered the office lobby, Tucker couldn't honestly say he was surprised by the array of faces that greeted him. He _was_ surprised by the state he found them in, and immediately upon absorbing the details, his already churning stomach knotted, like a roiling anemone folding in on itself.

Thus, his outburst of "_Dash!_" came out sounding significantly more like a blurted squeak than anything else. Nonetheless, it served its purpose, jerking Dash's head up as instantly as if pulled by a puppeteer's string, and after working over his initial surprise, Dash's shoulders visibly tensed.

Brow furrowing and fists closing in on themselves, he jerked out of his seat, demanding of Lancer, "What's _he_ doing here!" without a moment's pause. "He hasn't done—he doesn't have anything to _do_ with this!" he insisted. "You can't just-"

"If you would kindly sit _down_, Mr. Baxter…" Lancer cut in coolly, but it lacked any sharp, reproving element, and when Dash begrudgingly complied, he nodded. "Very good. Now, Mr. Foley, if you would please wait a moment with Misters Lee, Baxter, and Williams…"

Tucker nodded mutely, but barely registered Lancer's nod and subsequent exit, his attention fully monopolized by Dash and the process of trying to ascertain a plausible rationale for his current "state of affairs," i.e.: barefoot, shirtless, and handcuffed, nursing a bloodied lip and an already-impressive shiner from his wary perch on the wide bench outside the principal's personal office. After a long moment and much guesswork, each possibility turning up worse than the last, he eventually frowned, and decided to take it one baby step at a time.

"Dash…what happened to your shirt?"

That sparked three reactions.

Dash blushed, Kwan gave a sort of low groan, and Tyrone snickered indiscriminately. Tucker's puzzlement deepened. At length, Dash pursed his lips, and then, wincing, he gave up on the expression and shrugged instead, still managing to look somewhat guilty all the while.

"It wasn't my fault, okay? We…" He flicked his tongue over his lip, grimaced, and lifted his hand, the links on his cuffs clinking as he brought the back of his palm to his mouth. "It was…in the locker room, so…didn' 'xactly 'ave time to get…dressed…"

Tucker raised his eyebrows, noting the slurring effect of Dash's fiddling, and he scanned the empty front desk. Spotting what he wanted, he snatched an unattended Kleenex from an open box by the office phone and approached the seated trio.

"I wasn't complaining," he clarified, earning two T.M.I. looks from the boys flanking Dash's left and right and a corresponding blush from the front and center. "Just wondering, that's all. Here…" When he motioned, Kwan scooted over enough to give him room, and he offered up the sheet of Kleenex as he took a seat, "…put something besides your sweaty hand-germs on that and quit picking at it…and you should get some water on it too. It doesn't look like any of you cleaned up at all…" Cue: baby step number two. "How _did_ you end up in handcuffs, anyway?"

"Defendin' yer honour," "Trying to get himself _killed_," and, "Okay, he was _begging_ for it…" answered him simultaneously, and Tucker blinked.

"Right…so, umm…who was begging for what, why killed, and what honour?" he asked, and Tyrone snorted.

"Oh, yeah, man…I can see why you keep this kid around…"

Tucker tossed him a sidelong glance. Then, after a moment's debate, he settled on observing him in full. Finally, after coming on no concrete conclusions he asked, "You know, no offense, but…what _are_ you doing here, anyway? I assume this is Team A, and Team B is as busted up as you all are in some separate room, but…last time, I kina got the impression you were on _their_ side," he said, jabbing an emphasizing thumb in the direction of the still-rumbling commotion outside, and Tyrone frowned.

After a pregnant pause, he shrugged, expression going neutral. "Sometimes people jus' need a good knock upside the head…an' as it happened, I came to agree with yer boyfriend on who that somebody was."

Tucker mirrored the other boy's frown of moments before, well aware that a lot went unsaid in that explanation, but before he could press for details, Tyrone flipped the tables.

"So, how _did_ you get that shit on my phone, anyway?"

Tucker's face heated. "Oh, uhh…" Caught outright, he looked guiltily away, "…a technician never reveals his secrets?"

Tyrone scoffed. "Ya, uhhuh…an' my gran'mammy 'kin score nothin' but net from-"

"Misters Lee and Williams…" Lancer cut in abruptly from the door, "…if you would follow Mrs. Parkinson to the councillor's office, please…and Misters Baxter and Foley…" He paused to grant them an assessing glance as Kwan and Tyrone obligingly stood, and Tucker's hand jerked automatically off of Dash's wrist and back into his lap, "…wait in my office. I'll deal with you two in a moment."

Tucker swallowed. Dash's cheeks looked like valentines. In silence, they retreated together to the confines of Mr. Lancer's vice-principal's office.

Once in, Tucker caved to the need to give a more thorough inspection, reaching up and brushing the loosened curtain of bangs from Dash's forehead to check for head trauma, noting the severity of various bruises, and running a gentle thumb under his darkening eye – only to have Dash wince anyway.

"Sorry," Tucker apologized, moving his thumb but not withdrawing his hand, "it's just…jeez, how many guys were you up against, anyway? Did you decide it would be cool to take on your whole sports team or something?" At Dash's look, Tucker's shoulders slumped. "_Please_ tell me you didn't-"

"Not the _whole_ team," Dash excused himself. "It was only a few guys…like two…or three, or five, or…umm…" Dash looked thoughtful, "…seven…"

"_Seven?_" Tucker yelped. "And how the hell did you work it through your skull that taking on _seven_-"

"I wasn't _counting_," Dash defended. "It might not have been that many! Or it…_mighthavebeenmore_," He rushed that bit, "but the point is, I just…it was…" As his words trailed off, Tucker pursed his lips, and finally he asked, uncharacteristically meek, "Why are you so mad?"

Tucker's scowl darkened. "Umm…hmm, let me think…_because_," he snapped back, "as far as I can tell, someone called you a queer, and suddenly it's an all-out free-for-all _brawl_? I don't know what you think-"

"It wasn't that!" Dash cut in, and at Tucker's look, he hesitated. "Well, I mean, yeah, it kind of _started_ like that…" he admitted, but just as Tucker opened his mouth for the I-told-you-so, he barrelled on with, "…but that wasn't what the _fight_ was for, okay? I was doing good…I was ignoring everything he was sayin' and it wasn't anything he said about me, it was…when he started in about _you_ that…"

Tucker's stomach took a hard dive – a water balloon, dropped from a five story building. "You…got into a fight…because someone called _me_ queer?"

"No!" Dash jumped in immediately, and then, "Well…I mean, that was _part_ of it, but…no, it wasn't, it—it was worse than that! And…I…" He let out a defeated breath, observing, "You're even more upset now…" and Tucker shook his head, hands going up wildly.

"_Yes,_ I'm more upset now! Because now I know it was part _my_ fault, and-"

"It wasn't-"

"-I hate seeing you _hurt_ like this, so to hear that it was because…because someone—dammit, Dash! People make fun of me all the _time_, don't you get it? It's not something special, it's not something new…it just happens, and just because we're…" Tucker waved his hand vaguely about, "…whatever…'_boyfriends_' now doesn't mean you have to…to assume some sort of 'heroic duty' to defend my name behind my back, and-"

"But-"

"Do you know what it _feels_ like?" Tucker insisted. "To be dragged up here and see _cops_ and…and to know that it…it must have had something to do with you, and then to see _you_, and see that you're…all…" Tucker swallowed hard, "…it's—it just…it _sucks_ okay?" he snapped with sudden ferocity. "It really, really sucks, and I _hated_ it, and it made me so _worried_, and sick, and—and _furious_, and-"

"You were worried about me?" Dash blurted, sounding like a man genuinely startled with a pleasant surprise, and Tucker's words ground to a stuttered halt.

"I-I…uhh…" He blinked upwards, and Dash eyed him curiously, something new swirling in his expression, just beyond reach of identification. Tucker fought the urge to stare at his shoes. "That was…I mean…well…_ye-_"

The door opened, and it might as well have been a gunshot for as high as they jumped, jerking apart like preteens caught unawares on a clandestine first date. Lancer barely spared them a glance, and Tucker eyed the cop that followed him in warily, but he only motioned for Dash to offer up his hands.

"Cuffs," he said, jingling keys by way of explanation, and when Dash obliged, he shook his head, mumbling something vague about lucky bastards, 'kids these days,' and rampant ungratefulness that Tucker couldn't fully catch as he removed the restraints. He left immediately afterwards.

"He's right, you know," Lancer said evenly, gravitating towards his desk as Dash rubbed sorely over the pink rings left on his wrists. "You are _beyond_ fortunate to be getting off as lightly as you are. It's precisely this kind of barbaric foolhardiness that lands boys in reform school…and as it is, your friend Mr. Williams may not be so lucky."

Tucker watched Dash's fingers falter in their ministrations, and wondered if 'fortunate' in this case meant 'privileged enough to have connections with the power to bail him out.' Did that mean that Tyrone didn't have someone to save him from serious trouble? And what about Dash? Did that mean that his parents were already involved in this?

Apparently, Dash was wondering the same thing. "Do my paren-"

"But, alas…that is not why Mr. Foley is here," Lancer said, drawing Tucker's attention back, and when he looked up, Lancer's eyes were on him. "Do you _know_ why you're here?"

"Umm…" '_Because some guy said something about me and pissed Dash off?_' The bell to dismiss class sounded loudly through the halls, and he wondered how long Lancer planned on keeping them. He shook his head, admitting, "Not exactly, no."

"I see." Lancer moved behind his desk, opening a drawer and fishing around. After a moment, he produced an all-too-familiar document, and dropped it out on the desk top, the bold headlines readable from across the room, even if the picture quality was abysmal. "I assume you're familiar with this, are you not?"

"Err…" '_How could we __**not**__ be…?_' Tucker cleared his throat, feeling suddenly very awkward. "Well, yeah, but…I don't see how that relates to-"

"If this were the usual prank and nonsense that I initially assumed it was, then you'd be right, Mr. Foley, it wouldn't relate at all. However…" Lancer's eyes darted between them, "…if there were _truth_ in this, and that, correspondingly, lead to any of my students being put in _danger_…"

Not gawking outright suddenly became a formidable challenge. "Are you seriously saying…" Tucker finally managed to say, "…that you'd object to something like that being legit because it pose a threat to the _other students?_ Did you not _see _what they just did to _Dash?_ If that's not what you call-"

"I never said anything about objecting."

"-dangero—oh…" Tucker's anger melted as quick as it came; then, confusion replaced it, "…wait, what?"

"I was implying that it would be dangerous to _you_, Mr. Foley…and to Mr. Baxter…and, as we have seen in evidence today, to anyone else unwise enough to get themselves caught in the crossfire. Hate crimes can be vicious and violent things…especially among the youth, and while it is nominally none of my concern what any of you get up to on your own time, here at school, your health and general well-being are well within my jurisdiction."

Tucker frowned. "Okay…so…_why_ am I here?"

"You are here because, if there _is_ validity to these…rumours, then I believe it would be in your best interests to inform me, so that it can be seen to that…incidents…of this sort do not happen again…or, if they do, that someone of authority can be made more ready to counteract it in its early stages."

Tucker blinked. "So…you're like…mandatorily requiring me to come out to the entire staff of Casper High?"

Lancer gave him an odd look. "I suppose-"

"My parents know about this, don't they…" said Dash, not bothering to intonate it as a question, and Lancer switched his focus.

"Yes. Both your parents have been contacted and informed of the situation-"

"Do they know what-"

"They only know that you were involved in another fight," Lancer answered without waiting for the question, and a visible amount of tension seeped from Dash's stance.

He swallowed and nodded. "Okay, good-"

"However, if there's more to this than that, I believe it would be wise to-"

"No!" Dash blurted, and then blushed, the tension rushing back as fast as it left. "That is—I jus-"

"It's all bullshit," Tucker came in over him, and earned himself two startled stares in the process. He ignored them, and silently prayed that his casual, airy tone held for the duration of his lie. "When I tutored him last semester, we had to spend a lot of time together. Apparently some people figured it would be funny to take that and exaggerate it. The morning that picture was taken, I couldn't drive to school like usual, or get a ride from any of my friends, and I had his number, so I called him. He took me to school. Someone snapped a shot when we were both under the umbrella…and since it was raining _hard_, you know, it was kind of natural for both of us to want to be under the umbrella. And that was it. Now people are just making a spectacle. So…can I go home now?"

Lancer looked skeptical at best and a little more than mildly disapproving. But then, _convincing_ Lancer wasn't really the goal. As long as he got off their back, didn't spread news to the rest of the faculty, and most importantly _didn't_ say anything to Dash's parents, then Tucker would feel accomplished.

At long last, Lancer released a concessional sigh, but he held on to his frown. "Very well…if you're _sure_ that that's all you have to say…" He cast a glance towards Dash – who shook his head, and then hastily nodded, as if changing his mind about which would be appropriate. Finally, he just coughed, his face pink all over again.

"Yeah, that, uhh…that sounds about right," he agreed choppily.

Tucker made a mental note never to have Dash lie for him, either.

Lancer pursed his lips, but didn't comment. "Alright…then you are both dismissed—_but_…" He emphasized as Dash practically bee-lined for the door, "…Mr. Baxter, you should be sure to report to my office immediately tomorrow morning in regards to your punishment."

Dash's feet dragged, his shoulders drooped, and his uttering of "Punishment?" sounded so much like a puppy's whine in the face of discipline, that Tucker had to turn his face to the floor to cover for the momentary twitch of a smile that betrayed him despite his best intentions.

Lancer looked impressively unfazed. "Yes, your punishment," he repeated. "You didn't think you'd damage school property, interrupt the latter half of a school period, and nearly give three boys concussions without _any_ consequences, did you? You should be happy you didn't break any bones…otherwise, I'm afraid it wouldn't have mattered who you had standing up for you, you'd have found yourself behind bars before the day's end."

Dash opened his mouth as if to complain further, but then shut it again a moment later, scowling in silence. After a short pause, Lancer raised his eyebrows.

"You are dismissed, gentlemen…unless you have something pressing to add?"

Dash turned for the door, opened it with perhaps a little more force than necessary, and exited. Tucker followed.

"Oh, and Mr. Foley…" Lancer's words caught him with his hand on the doorframe, and Tucker paused.

After a few dragging seconds, he turned. "Yes, sir?"

"You know…not all adults are out there to trap you or judge you or otherwise make your life miserable…sometimes we do honestly want to help, and whether you believe it or not…we can also prove to be surprisingly understanding."

Tucker's cheeks warmed, and he dipped his head, taking comfort in the fact that Lancer wouldn't be able to tell, from that distance. "Yes…I'm aware of that, sir, and I meant no offense to you, it's just…" He trailed, searching for the right words. "It's just…something about the faces he makes…when the subject of his parents comes up…I guess it really just gives me the sense that they aren't exactly the 'understanding' type…you know?" he said, tilting his head back up to see Lancer's reaction to the final admittance. The amount of empathy there surprised him.

"I see…well, in that case, I suppose I must concede your point. However…I would ask, then, that you do me one favour…"

"Sir?"

"Try to see to it that he _doesn't_ continue to let his frustrations over these 'rumours' escalate to the point where he ends up injuring himself and his peers?"

Tucker wondered if the undertone of '_Watch out for him for me, will you?_' was all in his head. He nodded anyway. "I will."

Lancer nodded in turn, and, finally feeling dismissed, Tucker left.

He found Dash waiting just across the way, weight casually propped against the still-vacant front office desk and arms folded. Apparently everyone previously crowded around the door had found better things to do after the bell, because the halls were as empty as everywhere else, as far as Tucker could tell. He wondered where they'd carted all the other boys involved off to, but the thought passed quickly. Probably still in the counsellor's office.

"Shouldn't you be in the bathroom by now?" Tucker asked, and Dash looked up, as if just noticing him. "You need to get something cold on your eye as soon as possible or it's gonna swell up something crazy…maybe see the school nurse if she's still around? You're already gonna be stuck looking like a one-eyed Willie reincarnate for the next couple days…"

Dash snorted, but then shrugged, presumably not too terribly concerned about it one way or the other. "I'll go eventually," he conceded, "but…figured I'd wait for him to let you out, anyway, 'cause…" He pushed up off his perch, shoving his hands in his pockets as he went and inadvertently nudging his beltline a good half-inch or so lower in the process, "…is Danny still around, or are you gonna, like…need a ride, or something?"

'Danny' as opposed to 'Fenton' or some other distasteful variation, Tucker noted silently, mildly surprised, but pleased. "No, he…probably left already…I'd guess…" he answered without putting much thought into it, his attention naturally divided by the recently-bared ribbon of skin above Dash's waistline, exposed courtesy of his shift in position, "…but, umm…" He cleared his throat and dragged his eyes up – with no insignificant amount of effort – back to Dash's face. Whether or not his gaze took rest stops along the way was another matter entirely. "I shouldn't need a ride…unless someone, you know, trashed my car or something since I drove it to school this morning." At Dash's look, he hastily added, "Which I have no reason to believe anyone _did_, I'm just sayin'…"

"Mm…" Dash still looked dissatisfied, but at least temporarily placated. "So you're gonna go home now, then?" he asked, and Tucker, eyes wandering again of their own accord, yanked his gaze back to Dash's.

In his defence, dealing with Dash shirtless was sort of like facing down a walking, talking Calvin Klein add and trying not to stare.

"Yes…well, soon," he amended. "Are you going to go clean up, or what?"

"Yeah," Dash answered, "or, well…soon." He smiled, shifting his hands to where only his thumbs hooked into his pockets, and, of course, drawing Tucker's attention back down with the movement. "Thought I might go back and get my clothes first, though…" By the time Tucker looked back up, Dash was smirking, "…unless you'd rather I don't?"

Caught, Tucker's face warmed. "Oh, well, I mean, you know, yeah…clothes are always…" Dash's toes curled against the office carpet, and when he stepped forward, somehow instead of 'optimal' as he intended, Tucker said, "…optional…" He didn't realize his mistake until Dash laughed aloud – a warm, full sound that shook his shoulders and banished in an instant the lines of tension previously gathered there – and Tucker, for all his embarrassment, decided a little of his pride was easily a worthwhile sacrifice for that.

"I like how you're thinking," Dash teased on approach, closing in until barely a foot lay between them, and Tucker never quite figured out _how_ his hands wound up on Dash's hips once he drew close enough – alighting, but barely touching, like birds perched on the border between the waistline of Dash's pants and the soft of his skin, allowing him to feel both at once – and he wasn't sure if the purpose of the gesture was to discourage Dash from closing in any further or to assure that he didn't back farther away, but he couldn't quite summon the will to withdraw, in any case.

"Yeah, well…you…" Tucker wanted to close his eyes and hold his breath, because this was a bad, bad place for this, he knew, but Dash was closer still than he was a half-second before, and if Lancer took one look out from his office or if _anyone_ happened down the hallway outside, there would be no explaining their way out of anything for sure. Unfortunately, "Are you…sure this a good place…to…" didn't come out nearly as steadfastly as he intended.

Instead, his sentence faltered at the first gentle pressure of a forehead against his, and "No," Dash said quietly. "In fact…it's probably one of the worst possible places…" he admitted, but then he tilted his head down anyway, and as warm breath on his lips foreshadowed things to come and his pulse declared a field day in his throat, Tucker wondered absently if they were both secretly exhibitionists at heart. Then, his lips parted under Dash's mouth, the kiss swallowing his first, desperately restrained sound of consent as his hands on Dash's hips twitched a fraction tighter, upping to a cling, and, given their history on such things, he decided that yes, yes they were _definitely_ exhibitionists.

He groaned, soft against Dash's mouth, his stomach clenching as their tongues tapped, and then twined, Dash's hands – at his hips now – a warm, familiar weight, fitting them together, grounding him.

Far too soon, Dash pulled back (never mind that they shouldn't have been kissing in the front office in the _first_ place) and Tucker swallowed against a dizzying swoon, clutching tighter still to his base of support and wondering what the heck he was supposed to do _now_, with hands full of his half-naked boyfriend and an erection that probably wouldn't be going down anytime soon without a fight.

When he said as much, using only slightly less explicit terms, Dash chuckled unforgivingly.

"Well, how about I get some clothes on. That should help, huh?"

For the moment, Tucker opted out of developing a cocky response in favour of simply accompanying Dash back to the locker room. And the shirt _did_ help. Some.

Thus, some thirty to forty-some-odd minutes since his initial trip to the principal's office, Tucker sat on a locker room bench, his hands propped back behind him, nodding his approval as Dash re-presented himself.

"Yeah," he said, "that's much…well, less distracting, anyway, if not really 'better,' per say, depending on what sense of the word you're going for…" and Dash snorted, but looked rather pleased with himself anyway.

"What, you liked me better half-naked?" he asked.

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Well, I mean, not 'you,' as a person, better, but, uhh, eye candy wise? Oh, that's a tough one, let me think…_yeah?_" He waved one hand dismissively. "You're _sexy_…sexy guys tend to look good half-naked…or, you know, good at any level of naked, really…that's sort of the definition?"

Dash grinned, approaching. "You're-"

"Don't get started on me," Tucker warned, holding up a finger. "I'm-"

"-too modest," Dash finished, and Tucker meant to laugh. Really, because 'modest' was among the _last_ of all adjectives he might ever dream of selecting to describe himself. But Dash planted a knee on the bench a half-inch from his thigh and a hand on the wall to the side of his head, and this time there really wasn't any legit reason they _shouldn't_ be this close, given that they really did have the place to themselves. So, the laugh only halfway made it, and petered out entirely when Dash's lips started climbing the length of his jaw.

"I'm…not modest," Tucker argued, shutting his eyes as the ministrations progressed upwards: along his chin and then on, to the juncture of neck and jaw. "I actually…" His fingers closed in the fabric of Dash's shirt, holding rather than pushing or pulling, "…have been told more than once, that…I'm too forward and…full of myself…"

Dash huffed, sending warm air tickling down the back of his neck, and Tucker swallowed. "Forward, sure…" He kissed Tucker's neck, "…but you have way too many insecurities for someone who's full of themself…" and there, Tucker tensed.

The holding hand on Dash's shirt started to push (never mind that he might as easily have been shoving at the trunk of an oak for all the effect it had). "I-I'm not…insecure…" he objected, and mentally kicked himself for the way that came out: '_Oh, yeah, real stable Tuck. Way to make a point._' "I've just…come to accept some stuff over the years…and be _realistic_…that doesn't…make me…"

Dash allowed him about half of an average personal bubble's worth of space (at best), and their eyes met. "Okay…" he conceded, "…so, if it's just that, then why are you always so surprised when I say something nice to you, huh?"

Tucker's mouth opened, but his lips hung there, his tongue still, useless, and hugely uncooperative in his time of need, and at long last, his eyebrows furrowed up, torn, something guilty and conflicted knotting up in his gut.

Dash waited, patient, watching, and for a terrifying moment Tucker felt naked as an open book. He snapped his gaze away.

"I, umm…"

It wasn't that he thought Dash was stupid. He knew better now, obviously. Still, it continued to surprise him when Dash managed to make a valid, insightful point seemingly out of nowhere. So, cornered, with no real comeback and none forthcoming, Tucker finally, instinctively resorted to the first available option he came upon: evasive manoeuvres.

"We need to get something for your eye."

Dash heaved a sigh, frowning hard, clearly fully aware of the escape tactic.

It wasn't that Tucker _meant_ to doubt the positive things Dash threw his way, and really, he hadn't even always _been_ that way. If someone had expressed their undying affections for him freshman year, he probably would have taken it and ran with it, no questions asked. It was just, the process of growing up had a habit of hammering in harsher realities, and a guy could be rudely dumped, denied, or stood up so many times before he started building walls and making a more serious effort to take a candid look at the bigger picture.

Was it really his fault for being amazed, from time to time, that Dash was still sticking it through with him? When girls not _half_ as attractive and on the rock bottom of the social ladder wouldn't give him the time of day? Dash was gorgeous. Tucker harboured no doubts in his mind about which of the two of them was easier on the eyes. And sure, he wasn't the kind of guy to look a gift horse in the mouth, but sometimes he just couldn't _help_ but wonder what Dash saw in him, and when things like "I like you," "I missed you," and "I want this to mean something…" came out of the blue, it seemed only natural to be surprised.

He didn't _want_ to be scared that Dash would eventually get bored one day and call everything off, or that it was all a big, fun game that could end in the blink of an eye. But the bigger fear was that if he _let_ _go_ of that caution, that if he let himself believe that Dash really, really liked him, and then it turned out that he was _wrong_…

"Okay," Dash conceded at length, looking displeased but resigned, and Tucker released a shaking breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, folding his arms in on himself as soon as Dash backed off. Seeing this, Dash's frown changed, concern replacing frustration, and when he asked "Are you alright?" Tucker's eyes flicked to his.

"Oh, umm…yeah, I'm…fine. Just got a…chill, for a second…"

"Mm." Dash pushed up, off the bench, and Tucker turned his eyes to the floor and shut them, listening to his footsteps as he walked off. A minute later, he received a nudge to the shoulder accompanied by a "Here…" and he looked back up, surprised. His cheeks warmed at the sight of the offering, and he accepted the jacket in silent, abashed thanks. "You know, for the record…" Dash continued as he started wrapping the extra cover over his shoulders, "…you say that 'fine' shit about as convincingly as any girl…you sure you don't wanna tell me what's up?"

Tucker's blush darkened, but he met Dash's eyes when he shook his head. "No, umm…not for now, anyway…"

"Mmkay…" Dash conceded, leaning down when Tucker stood, and the kiss wasn't innately special or extraordinary in any marked way – just quick and gentle – but it still made Tucker's heart race up to meet it, regardless. "So…" Dash said when he withdrew, "…what's up with putting cold stuff on a bruise, anyway? Isn't that just like, an old lady's story or something?"

"An old wives' tale?" Tucker corrected automatically, but smiled at Dash's willingness to change the subject without fuss. "No," he said. "There's real scientific evidence behind it. The cooler temperatures constrict the blood vessels, which keeps more blood from spilling into the affected tissue and restricts the size of the bruise…it also minimizes swelling and numbs the area and stuff, so it doesn't hurt as much."

Dash blinked. "Huh. Wow, where…when do you _learn_ that stuff?" he asked, sounding, surprisingly enough, mildly impressed, and Tucker shrugged.

"It helps to know, sometimes…" Finished in the locker room, they started to head out, but at the door, a thought occurred to him, "Hey, you never did tell me what actually started that fight…?" and Dash's pace faltered for a moment.

Then, he pursed his lips. "Stuff…" he said vaguely, but at Tucker's look, he sighed and caved. "Okay, here…" He stopped walking and caught Tucker's hand, lacing their fingers together and holding them up between them. "What's the difference?" he asked.

Tucker blinked at their interwoven fingers, Dash's slightly broader and rather encompassing in comparison. "Umm…your hands are bigger?" he guessed tentatively, not quite sure what Dash was getting at.

Dash smiled strangely. "Well, yes, that's one thing…anything else?"

Tucker looked again, frowning thoughtfully. It was an odd game, but he'd play it, if it produced answers. "Yours are, umm…" He shifted his grip, the slightly courser skin of Dash's palm brushing his, and he said, "You have more calluses."

Dash laughed. "Yeah, but…" He shook his head, pulling his hand away, "…no." He looked considerate for a moment, and then held his forearm out, motioning for Tucker to do the same, as if they were going to compare sun tans or something. "Now what's different?" he asked, and Tucker looked at their arms, Dash's light, soft-gold tan in juxtapose with his…

'_Oh._' Comprehension dawned, and Tucker let his arm drop back down. "Ah, okay, I see," he said aloud. "So it's 'cause I'm black, huh?"

For some reason, this really made Dash blush, which Tucker noted with silent curiosity, but he nodded anyway as they resumed walking. "Yeah, umm…well, I mean basically, I guess. It was just…" He drew in a breath, "…someone had some not so great things to say about it, and it…pissed me off, is all…you know?"

Tucker fit his hands into his pockets, eyeing the floor. After a moment, he said, "You know…sometimes people can just be-"

"I know," Dash cut in. "I know, I just…I guess I'm not very used to dealing with it…? That sort of…shit, I mean, and, umm…" He shrugged, "…well, you know…I'm not very good at…not hitting people, in general."

Tucker wasn't going to smile. He bit the smile, in fact. And he _certainly_ wasn't going to laugh, because this was _serious_, and laughing would just make it okay and silly and-

When he choked on a snort, Dash raised a discerning eyebrow. "What?"

Tucker shook his head quickly, hand over his mouth. "Nothing."

"_What?_"

"Nothing!" Tucker insisted, and then, at Dash's look, he groaned, dropping his hand back down in defeat. "You just…you make me smile, sometimes, okay? Is that going to be alright with you, your highness?"

Dash eyed him, another slow, creeping warmth of a very different breed from that of moments before rising on his cheeks, and at last, he nodded, looking quite pleased, if bashful. "Yeah, umm…sure, that's cool."

Somehow, they made it to their respective cars without further incident.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay. So. There are a lot of issues with this chapter, I know. I'd go into it, but usually people don't like whiney authors/artists in general, so I'll mostly skip it, just...biggest appologies for whiney/insecure!Tucker this chapter. For real, guys. It just...it's there, I can't imagine it not being there, and I couldn't figure out how to paint it out without making it a bit of a drag in the process. Dash will work on him, I promise. Dash IS and HAS BEEN working on him quite steadily, and he'll get there (to the point where he doesn't feel like he's enjoying a good thing while it lasts); it'll just take a bit more time. I don't like making Tucker too insecure on the outside because I KNOW he has a lot of confidence in a lot of ways, but I can't let it slip without digging into the fact that there have to be doubts that come with that show. Hopefully it's bearable.

In other news, the next chapter...is over 14k words (thirty-two pages on my word processor) long. Thus, I'm almost positive at this point that I'm going to split it into two sections. It _will_ be two parts of the same chapter (since it's all Dash's "perspective" all the way) but I just...wouldn't feel right loading you guys up with _that much _text, no matter how much you say you wouldn't mind it. It's just...ridiculous.

On the up side, I'm home for the Thanksgiving holiday! (Cue: all rejoice. *j/k*) This means several things: a.) I'll have lots of free time, b.) I'll have lots of distractions, and c.) my boyfriend will try to fix WoW on my computer and in doing so get me sucked back in. Right now I'm sort of dreading that. Maybe I'll be able to stay away from WoW for a bit and make some good progress. Mm. We'll see. Cross your fingers for me?

Oh, and seriously, I shouldn't be posting this soon. I made a deal with myself where I wasn't going to post until I finished with the chapter I'm currently working on, but...I'm in a slight bit of a rut, again, and I want to work myself out of it so that I can make progress over the break. Hopefully it'll work.


	21. Harmony: I

**Chapter Twenty-One:**

Harmony|: I

A close, temperamental growl of thunder churned the wet air mere moments after the last, spidery web of lighting to light the sky had faded out (not two seconds before), and Dash tugged his jacket tighter over his shoulders, scanning the bleak, misty parking lot before him for the third time in the past half-minute.

There were undeniably certain advantages to getting into fights with a lot of people involved, at least in highschool. The thing was, if one half of everyone involved in some form of school sports activity decided to beat up the other half of everyone involved in said school sports activity, authority figures couldn't very well ban _everyone_ from participating in their next game and/or try-out. They wouldn't have a team.

They also couldn't send them _all_ to reform school.

So, as it turned out, Dash – along with virtually everyone else involved in the locker room "incident" – escaped with very little in terms of real punishment: a verbal slap on the wrist, a few short suspensions, and they called it a done deal. They were all very, very fortunate.

In any case, that was how it happened that, some two weeks or so later, Dash – having just finished (and won, thank you very much) a basketball game against the Hawthorn High hornets – was standing outside the gym, in the dark and rain, lurking under the overhang as he scanned the rapidly-emptying parking lot for any sign of his once again no-show boyfriend.

When yet another search produced no results, he huffed in agitation, and the puff of his exhale made a nearly tangible cloud of white before him, starkly visible against the night air.

Where _was_ he? If he had at least called or left a message or given _some_ kind indication that he couldn't make it, Dash could have breathed a lot easier, but-

An incoming text inspired more hope than he was inclined to admit…

…but it was just Kwan.

Dash scowled at the illuminated screen, _going2 giv up yet?_ glaring at him in plain, harsh white text. Just before his thumb hit the pad to start texting out a response, a loud, sharp cough issued at his right, and he didn't _jump_, per say, he just-

"What the fuck, Kwan?" he growled, jerking around and turning a harsh glare on his now-smirking best friend. At the look, he folded his arms tightly over his chest, cursing the rapid thumping still evident in his chest and scowling. "You _trying_ to get yourself sucker punched?"

"Sorry," Kwan apologized without sounding it, "did I scare you?" he teased.

"_No_," Dash snapped immediately, irritated, and he dropped his weight back against the wall, looking the other way – and _not_ sulking. Dash Baxter did not sulk. After a moment, he grunted, "Anyways, shouldn't you be gone by now, like…home?"

Kwan shrugged, unconcerned. "Could say the same for you," he pointed out, mimicking Dash's propped pose against the wall, but when Dash spared him a narrowed, suspicious glance, he grew serious. "Look, man, I mean it here, okay? No joke…it's freakin' _cold_ out. It's raining…but some of the rain is ice already, on the streets. This shit is _nasty_, and it's gonna be dangerous driving home even now, as it is…" He shook his head. "What if he just couldn't show, huh? You're not doin' anyone any favours by trying to catch pneumonia…"

Dash turned his eyes to the pavement, but pinning down smeared, dingy pink bubble gum stains and weather-worn remnants of age-old graffiti with his glares offered no reprieve from his foul mood, so he sent a hapless ant on an early trip to heaven with the toe of his shoe instead.

"Yeah?" he griped back. "Well, wow, I mean gee thanks and all, but, you know what? I'm pretty sure I actually already _knew _all that, so…could you just like…piss off? You're not helping." After a prolonged pause and no movement on Kwan's part, he grumbled and dropped his head back to the wall, glowering at dark underside of the overhang above. "He _said_…" he started strongly enough, but the insistence dwindled off, doubt filling in the hole where stubborn faith once dominated.

"I know," Kwan acknowledged after a break. "All I'm saying…is sometimes stuff comes up, you know?"

"Yeah, well," Dash snapped back, suddenly more irritated than he probably ought to have been – this wasn't _Kwan's_ fault, after all, "shit comes up…" but again, what started out as something powerful lost its fire, mid-sentence, "…shit comes up…too often…with him."

And it was _true_, dammit!

Tucker disappeared at the oddest times and for the oddest reasons, and would say one thing only to have something else unspeakable interfere. And Dash _wanted_ to believe all his excuses. He really, really did. It was just…

At least Kwan looked honestly sympathetic, even if it didn't exactly help Dash's tough-guy complex. "Yeah, well-"

Dash's ring tone cut him off, and Dash stifled a budding spark of anticipation. He wasn't going to get his hopes up. He wasn't, wasn't, wasn't…

Spotting the caller-id, his spirits leapt despite his best intentions. Heart ramming its up his throat like the little weighted ball after some Neanderthal hit a homerun in a circus game of Test Your Strength, he held the device in his palm, making himself wait. One ring, one and a half, two, two and-

He flicked the phone open and put it to his ear with a "Yeah?" that he hoped sounded less anxious on Tucker's end.

The sound of more, heavy rain came in through the line, surprising him. Tucker was outside too? Then, after a heartbeat too long, "_H-hey, uhh…s-sorry for not…sh-showing up, but, umm_…" Tucker's voice barely came through, frailer than wet tissue paper and brittle as a glass angel, and as quick as that, concern snuffed out Dash's anger as surely as a businessman's hard heel driving a dimming pink cigarette butt into the pavement, "…_some stuff…c-came up_ _and_-"

Dash didn't bother to wait for the rest. "What happened, are you alright?" he drilled immediately. "Where are you? Did something-"

"_I, uhhh…I-I'm not sure exactly? B-but I'm f-fine, just…cold, I_-"

"You don't _know?_ How do you not-"

"_I-I, w-well, umm…I'm outside an…inn?_" Tucker's voice fumbled on the other end."_S-sort of…ab-bandoned looking? N-no one's here, but I…it's…I th-think I'm near the school, it looks sort of…familiar, but d-different in the…dark_…"

He continued to give vague, descriptive depictions of his location, explaining that something had hit his car, apparently damaging it badly enough that he had to leave it and walk to the nearest place of shelter, but the inn he found was closed up and dark.

The chain of events sounded odd and patchy at best, as if someone where reading a news story excerpt, except with large sections of the text hole-punched out, or cut apart and re-pasted together with significant chunks missing, but Dash listened, paying close, careful attention until he was pretty sure he knew where Tucker was.

"Alright," he said at that point, making a decision on the spot and cutting off his boyfriend's tremulous monologue, "I'm coming to get you."

"_H-hey, n-no, wait!_" Tucker stuttered in immediately over the line. "_Y-you don't n-need…I mean, m-my dad is c-coming already…I called him, and he'll…h-he'll b-be here as soon as he gets…o-out of work, and there will be someone to…to tow the…c-car, so I_-"

"Which is when?" Dash snapped, rising anxiety doing to his patience what good paper shredders did to old bills. "No," he said without waiting for a reply. "You're freezing, and it's dangerous, and I'm coming to get you. Your dad can deal with the car when he gets there. I'll see you in twenty."

Only after he hung up did he notice his hands were shaking.

Great.

Did Tucker just _gravitate_ towards disaster?

When Kwan raised his eyebrows in a silent question, Dash shook his head.

"He's…I've got to go," he said by way of explanation. "But…thanks for the, uhh…you know…" He motioned indistinctly, "…whatever, you know?"

Kwan shrugged. "Anytime."

And with that and a nod, Dash made off into the rain.

Fortunately, he found Tucker's car more or less exactly where he expected to. He thanked childhood memories and a lifetime of Amity Park residency for that, something he _never_ expected to be grateful for. Unfortunately, the car's state – parked halfway off the side of the road, at a skewed angle, and obviously worse for the wear – didn't do much for his already battle-scarred nerves.

Surely, if Tucker had been seriously hurt, he would have said something…?

Suddenly not _nearly_ so sure of that as he might have liked, Dash's hold on the wheel tightened – until his knuckles cracked and drew his attention to it, at which point he eased up – and a short block later, he pulled into the empty parking lot of the old, vacant-looking inn Tucker had mentioned with a deep, consuming sense of dread overriding his every rational argument.

He spotted Tucker immediately – huddled under the overhang at the front of the building with his back to a wall and arms tucked tightly around him, the only human being in sight – and he pulled to an immediate stop, practically tripping in his haste to get out and leaving his keys in the ignition in the process.

"_What_…" Dash started as soon as he made it within earshot, "…the _he_-" but then his arms filled with a soaked, shaking body, and the words died in his throat. Heart leaping out of its own accord, his whispers of "Hey, hey…" and "…shh…" were instinctive, compulsive murmurs as his arms wound their way around his boyfriend's smaller, quivering figure, and his pulse hurt in his throat as he fit his palm to the small of Tucker's back, catching his other arm around his shoulders and tangling his fingers in the cold, wet braids at his neck. "Tucker…" he barely whispered the words, "…baby, what happened?" and Tucker closed trembling fingers in the fabric of his shirt, shaking his head against his chest.

"N-noth…nothing," he lied so obviously, "I…I just…you…" He swallowed, shuddering in Dash's hold as he tucked his head under his chin, close enough for Dash to feel the outline of his glasses' frames through his shirt, and "…you…showed up…" sounded so _surprised_.

Dash's stomach did some sort of odd, flipping twirling manoeuvre, and he blurted, "Of _course_ I showed up! You…you're _freezing_, and sopping wet, and your car gets wrecked, and you call me up and don't even expect me to-"

"Oh, sh-shit," Tucker tensed as he said it, trying to push back, "you're right…I'm…s-soaked, I shouldn't get you-"

Immediately, Dash tightened his grip. "Uh-uh, no," he growled, forbidding withdrawal the second Tucker made to move. "Don't. You. Dare. You need the heat _way_ more than I do," he insisted severely, "and if you're going to die of hypothermia, I'm going with you."

Well, _that_ stilled Tucker instantly.

Then, barely audible over the rush of the storm, his boyfriend huffed. The hot air seeping through Dash's already dampening shirt, just enough to feel, and "Don't say that," came the soft, subsequent mutter, "you shouldn't…just don't exaggerate like that…" but Dash only rolled his eyes in turn.

"Yeah? And why would I say it if I didn't-"

Cool, trembling fingers jerked up to touch his lips, hushing him, and he noted that the underside of Tucker's hand, the pads of his fingers in particular, were significantly paler than usual: crinkled, and almost white, naturally bleached by the wet and cold. He watched Tucker's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, shaking his head. "Dash…"

"Come on," Dash said, quieter, catching Tucker's fingers gently to guide them away, and then kissing his forehead. "I'll drive you home."

At first, Tucker's eyes flit shut, some unspoken tension sinking from his stance and dissipating into the concrete, but stubborn concern lingered, and he resisted the first pull to leave. "Wait, what about-"

Guessing the reason for his hesitance, Dash said, "You can call your dad on the way," and with that, Tucker conceded, all things considered, without much struggle at all.

Five minutes later, they were on the road, Dash at the wheel and Tucker curled up in the front seat: eyes shut, head to the window, and body wrapped in a peculiar array of mismatched jackets and towels stolen from the trunk of the car. He looked like Sunday's laundry with a head stacked on top. Smiling only to himself, Dash turned his attention dutifully back to the road and clicked the windshield wipers up to their top setting. Being inattentive in this weather wouldn't go over well.

A minute or so passed with nothing but the unpatterned percussion of rain one the windshield and the quiet, mechanical hum of the engine to fill the car. Then, "You must think…" Tucker started softly out of nowhere, unintentionally stilling Dash's hand a moment before it flicked on the radio, "…that I'm such a…girl." He said it around a yawn, reminding Dash that it was, in fact, getting late. The game hadn't ended till after ten. At least, he thought, the tremor in his voice was gone.

In lei of the comment, Dash took the opportunity presented by a red light to cast an assessing glance in Tucker's direction: still curled into his seat, black lashes dark and damp against his cheeks, and full brown lips thick but barely parted. His glasses cast angled shadows across the smooth, rounded lines of his face, and Dash would always wonder why Tucker refused to consider himself attractive, but feminine? No.

Tucker would have a very, very tough time passing as a girl.

"Why do you say that?" Dash asked, letting off the brake and moving forward at the light change. Tucker shifted his weight.

"Just…'cause, I…" He watched in the rear-view mirror as Tucker's brow furrowed, changing the way the shadows fell on his face, "…well, I guess I just felt…stupid, that's all…for getting so…" He dipped his head, folding his arms in and propping his chin on his knees, eyes shutting, "…worked up, I guess…"

'_Scared_,' Dash mentally corrected, squinting to read the street signs and not really receiving much for his efforts. '_You were scared…' _That was as obvious as the plot of a cheap porno, _'…but everybody gets scared sometimes. It doesn't make you stupid_…' He just wished Tucker were willing to tell him _why_…

"There were ghosts," Tucker said suddenly, very quietly, as if reading Dash's mind. "I was…gonna go to the school to catch at least the later half of the game and see you play and all, but then…well, there was a fight that broke out and D-err…Phantom got caught up in it…"

'_And so you just hung around…?_' The appearance of ghosts sounded like a good reason to book it and pray for your life as far as Dash was concerned.

"My car, it…sort of got used as a, uhh…shield?"

"_Phantom _totaled your-" Dash burst out, but-

"No, no, no!" Tucker hastened to amend the misunderstanding. "He just…well," A pause, and then, softer, "…I mean, he didn't _mean_ to, anyway…"

Dash was having a little trouble concentrating on the road. He wasn't sure which was worse, the fact that Phantom had almost gotten Tucker killed or the fact that Phantom had _almost gotten Tucker killed_. "Were you _in_ the c-"

"No! No, Danny would never hurt m—err, that is…Phantom, Danny _Phantom_ would never…umm…" Tucker's curled position tightened in on itself, closing back up like a clam at the first touch of an unwelcome invader. "Never, uh…never mind…"

Dash mentally swore, emotions tangled and feeling far too much like he'd _just_ missed catching on to some vital piece of information there. The words knocked stubbornly back around in his brain, something definitely off about them. Or maybe it wasn't the words themselves so much as the way Tucker _said_ them…?

'_Danny would never_…'

Then, quite abruptly, Dash realized what was at issue. Tucker said Phantom's name _exactly_ like he said Fenton's – with that same protective, connected, concerned-

Dash's frown darkened to a scowl. "Since when have you called Phantom 'Da-"

White, cracking lighting split the sky, accompanied by a near-simultaneous boom, like the sound of firewood halving under a pickaxe, but multiplied a hundred-fold and echoing in real-time surround sound around the car. And all at once, as if It Almighty had given a grand 'clap _off_' command, the streetlights – and the lawn decorations, and the garden lights, and the house lights, and basically anything within a visible radius that drew off of electrical power – went out.

'_Well, fuuuu_…'

"Shit," he swore aloud, and Tucker lifted his head again.

"Oh, wow…" he muttered, nudging up his glasses and wriggling into a straighter sitting position as Dash let off the gas, slowing their pace yet again. Thankfully, there were very few other cars on the road, but visibility was shit poor as it was. They didn't need any added obscuring factors to make things even more dangerous. "_Da_~amn," Tucker drug the simple word out into at least two syllables, expression stuck between surprise and awe, "talk about your neighbourhood black out…did every single light in the _city_ kick the bucket?" he wondered aloud, "I woulda thought the power grid'd have backups…" and Dash pursed his lips, shaking his head.

"Dunno," he said, "but it sure seems that way…" and he strummed his fingers restlessly against the steering wheel, more anxious than he wanted to let on. "Fuck…you can't see a damn _thing_ with it like this…"

Tucker shifted in his seat, knocking down a couple jackets in the process, and "How far's my house?" he asked.

"At the rate I'm gonna have to go for this to be anything close to safe?" The rain had eased some, replaced by a deep white, blanket-thick fog that shrouded the road in dense, rolling mist like some scene from a haunted swamp in a cheap sci-fi/horror flick. "Fifteen…twenty minutes…maybe more? I'm not sure…" Dash squinted at the speedometer. "It's not like I've actually driven from where we were to your house before…just guessing by the distance from my house…"

"Which is?"

"Err…a minute? Two?" Dash guessed. "But…" He shook his head, "I need to get you home. It's late, and you need dry clothes, and a warm shower…and a bed. You're tired…I saw you yawn," he said, as if referencing evidence, and he caught Tucker's twitch of a smile in the rear-view mirror.

"Yeah, well…true story," he confessed, "but…it won't do either of us any good if we die in a car accident together, romantic clichés aside…" Dash snorted. "You could just pull over at your place till the lights come back on? Prolly won't be long…" he reasoned, and Dash frowned, eyeing the fog-laden street, carpeted in white, and then Tucker, bundled in his seat and still wet, if at least not shivering anymore.

Then again, he really _wasn't_ big on staying on the road much longer…

"Alright," he said at last, "but you're gonna change into some of my clothes when we get there…and you better tell your mom or something so she doesn't think I'm like…kidnapping and raping you or something…"

Tucker gave a soft snicker at that, somewhat muffled due to him having re-buried himself in the jackets, and Dash spared him a quick, passing glance.

"What?"

The rustle of cloth that followed was Tucker shaking his head. "Nothin'," he said mildly, "just…I think it would be…" He yawned, again, "…very…hard…for you to rape me…"

"Mm…" Dash spotted their turn off in the nick of time. "And why's that?" he asked neutrally, slowing as they came up on his driveway. "'Cause you're really good at ball shots, or something?"

It was amazing, he thought, how effortlessly Tucker's laugh dispelled every sense of gloom given off by the outside world, naturally filling the small, warm space of the car, and Dash turned his head towards the driver's side window, his smile reflecting back at him as he checked the mirror there. He turned them around, gradually easing the car back up his driveway.

"Nah…" Tucker responded at length. "Well, I mean, I could probably pull one off if need be, sure, but…what I meant was, you can't exactly rape the willing."

By the time Dash finally managed to safely turn his head and shoot him a look, Tucker was already shifting in his seat, sitting up, and squinting out the window, paying him no mind whatsoever.

"This it?" he asked, already reaching blindly to his side for the seat buckle and – finding it – clicking it free without waiting for the reply. Dash ran his eyes absently down Tucker's back, from the damp ends of his braids at his neck, over the T-shirt that still stuck in places to his narrow figure, and finally down to-

"Yes," Dash said, turning warming cheeks away from the sight and putting the car in park before retrieving his keys. "C'mon…let's get you dried up…"

The process of escorting his boyfriend through his lightless house, up the winding staircase to the second floor, and to his room without the aid of any more light than that provided by the combined power of their cell phones involved, among other things: hand holding, a stubbed toe, several curse words, a close encounter with a prized China vase, much bumping, a couple issues of miscommunication, and, finally, the quiet click of his doorknob when they reached their destination.

Tucker's soft, padded footsteps entered first.

He'd taken off his wet boots at the door, and held them dangling now from his right hand, cutting out a slim, dark silhouette against the naturally soft, silver-white light of night that spilled past Dash's curtains. Maybe Dash spent a little longer than necessary lingering in the doorframe, appreciating the finer details of that outline as Tucker moved in, almost to his bed.

Then, Tucker turned, and a prompting, "Well?" drew Dash from his staring.

Shaking his head to clear it, he entered the room. Habitually, he pulled the door shut behind him and then he paused, but after a brief moment's debate, he threw the lock. It was silly. His parents wouldn't be home until midday tomorrow, at the earliest, and there was no one else in the house. Anyway, Tucker would just be leaving again soon, so really there was no point…

"Yeah, sorry," he said aloud, pushing the thought from his mind. "Here, umm…" He moved to his closet, fishing in the dark through the available layers of garments and snatching up the first pair of jeans he came across. "You can wea—uhh…" He coughed, tripping over the latter half of the sentence immediately upon turning around, "…wh-what are you…doing?" he asked, and Tucker's hands stalled halfway up his chest, crossed one over the other, stilling the process of removing his shirt.

"Umm…stripping?" he answered, and Dash's cheeks stoked up the heat, making him strikingly thankful for the dark.

'_Right_,' he reasoned. Stripping. That made…sense. It _was_ sort of necessary, in order to change…

"Y…yeah, okay, but I, umm…there _is _a…bathroom…you know…" he pointed out, nudging his thumb towards the aforementioned facility for emphasis, as Tucker might possibly have missed it on his way in.

His boyfriend just rolled his eyes.

"Uh, yeah…but it's pitch _black_," Tucker retorted, and finished with the process of removing his shirt in an easy, practiced move, chucking it without qualm; Dash swallowed. "At least here, there's some light from your window, and anyway, if you're _embarrassed_…" His tone changed, softening and taking on a hint of well-aimed humour, "…you can turn around and close your eyes."

Dash opted not to comment, bit his tongue, and passed over the selected set of dry shirt and pants. "Just…hur-umm…" He shut his eyes and turned around, leaning against his closet door and dropping forehead into his forearm like the counter in a game of hide-and-seek, "…just hurry up…"

He pictured Tucker smiling. Or smirking, more likely.

Damn him.

Since when was Dash Baxter noble, anyway?

He should have stayed turned around. Seen how easy it was for Tucker to put on a strip tease with him _watching_ him, and-

There was the sound of shuffling, bare feet on carpeted floor and fingers on wet cloth, and Dash stopped breathing. He listened intently, ears straining to pick up every rustle of movement: the gentle pop of a snap, the metallic _shwwp_ of a zipper, and – his fingers folded into his palms, curling into fists – the slow skidding of damp, clingy denim as patient hands worked it slowly down, bit by bit over the skin of bare legs. Long, lithe, milk chocolate brown legs that would tremble to stand upright if he ran hands up them: starting at the ankles, up his calves, to the sensitive skin behind his knees and then-

Maybe it would be safer to try to think about something else.

Something else, yeah, something else like…

By the time the crumpled plop of dank jeans tossed aside sounded to his right, Dash had already lost his train of thought. And then, the quieter rustling of something less substantial and another subsequent plop meant that boxers, too, had been disposed of.

Which meant that he was in his room. His _locked_ room.

Alone.

In the dark.

With his _completely_ _naked_ _boyfrien_-

"Tucker?"

"Hm?"

Bad idea. Bad idea. Tucker was cold. He needed clothes. He needed sleep. Now was _not_ the time…

"Umm…" Dash squeezed his eyes tighter shut, willing his heart back down, out of his throat, and back into his chest where it belonged, "…n—uhhh…nothing, nevermind…"

Good. Very good. Dash: one. Dash's cock: zero.

Well, every victory came with a price, right? Some more painful than others…

"If you say so…" And there was more shuffling. "Ummm…actually, Dash…do you have some underwear I could-"

"Fucking-"

"Sorr-"

"No, no, it's no…problem…" Dash managed to squeeze out the words with some degree of success and stumbled half-blindly, sideways, to his dresser drawers. He tossed the first pair of boxers he found quickly over his shoulder.

"Thanks," Tucker quipped, and Dash shut his eyes again.

"Yeah…sure thing."

More rustling. "Dang, these things are loose…"

Unable to resist, Dash smirked. "What can I say…I know how to fill my boxers…"

Tucker half laughed, half snorted. "Oh, yeah, well…I mean, I kind of make up for it in _that_ regard. It's my hips that just aren't quite cutting it-"

"Okay, just because you have _one quarter inch_ on m-"

"It was a half an inch."

"It wa-"

Jeans zipped, and Tucker said, "You can look now."

Dash spent another second or two glaring at the wall. By the time he turned, Tucker had his shirt on as well. "You…" He blinked, "…look…"

"…like the world's first ever nerd gangster," Tucker stated bluntly, and Dash felt the corner of his mouth twitch, of its own accord. Tucker tugged at the loose, baggy white tee that draped over his lean frame, pulling to make it puff out and then flop back like a heavy sheet. After a moment, he hummed thoughtfully. "Okay, how's this…" He struck an animated pose: wrists crossed over one another in front of him and hands hanging down in upside-down peace signs, head cocked slightly back. "Yo," he greeted, "what's up my—uhmm…" He stalled a moment, lips pursing as he tilted his head to the side and frowned, thoughtful, "…hommie?"

Dash blinked.

Stared.

The first laugh bubbled, unbidden, out of nowhere, and then he had to cover his face with his palm, groaning around the rest of his snickers and shaking his head. "You're…god, no. That just…umm, you know what, just no. Jesus…" For some reason, despite the ridiculousness of it, or perhaps because of it, he couldn't ditch his smile, and Tucker's exaggerated pout only made it that much more difficult.

"Awww…" He brought his hands back in, hooking his fingers on his pants pockets. "You don't think I could swing it?" he asked, and waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

Dash made a noise _dangerously_ close to a gigg-

No, no, it was definitely a snort. Yeah.

Right.

Dash shook his head. "No. I, umm…no, I don't think you're quite cut out for it…" he assessed, and Tucker made a dismissive '_pphht…_' sound, waving him off. "But if '_weird kid_' were a job title…"

Apparently he went right with that one, because it earned him a striking, Cheshire grin, and an "Aww, that's so sweet…you really think so?" and Dash rolled his eyes, though the smile still stuck.

Leave it to Tucker to take 'weird' as the compliment of the century.

"Yeah," said Dash. "I really think so. You're like…the weirdest guy I know…by like…" He started to spread his arms to demonstrate, but quickly gave up and dropped his hands to his sides, shaking his head, "…football fields."

Tucker snickered, taking a step to the side, two…

He flopped onto Dash's bed. "You flatter me," he said, legs dangling over the edge and one arm slung across his face, the other up, above his head. "So…what now?"

Dash blinked. "Uhhh…" Having his boyfriend flat on his back on his bed, and sprawled out in almost pin-up-esque fashion to boot, didn't help his concentration. "What…do you mean?"

Tucker drew the hand away from his face and propped himself up on his elbows to look Dash's way. "Like, what's to keep me from falling asleep right here?" he asked openly. "I mean, I thought the lights would be back, like…before we even made it to your room, but nooo…and I'm _tired_…" he whined the last word, dropping back down for emphasis. "Do you have any movie—oh, wait, nevermind…no power _sucks_."

Dash approached the bed. "Yeah, well, you can't fall asleep here," he said matter-of-factly, "and the lights probably will be back soon, so…" He trailed off, eyes starting at Tucker's knees and travelling up. The clothes really were loose.

"So…?"

Dash cut his journey short and looked to Tucker's face. "So, umm…well, what do you _want_ to do?" he asked.

Tucker huffed. God, that pout. Seriously. "Sleep?"

Dash rolled his eyes skyward. "_Besides_-"

"Iono…"

"'Cause I _can_ keep you awake," Dash offered, "if you want…" and Tucker – who had curled his head to the side and into the comforter – snapped back to face him, not missing the underlying suggestion for a second.

"Hey, now, no…don't even—no, because…" He wriggled, pulling back some, further onto the bed as Dash put the weight of one knee on the mattress, "…because if you do, I'm…you're…_we're_ going to get…distracted, and-"

Dash chuckled as Tucker scrambled, stalking in and advancing until he had one hand to either side of Tucker's shoulders, and a knee to the side of his hip, body looming. "And…?" he prompted. "It would keep you awake, and besides…" He toed off his shoes, letting them fall to the carpet with twin thumps, "…you don't even know what I'm gonna do yet…"

"I…_yes_, I…" Tucker glowered, eyes narrowing behind the sharp glint of his glasses. "If you-"

The next second, those same eyes blinked, startled, and rounded back out as Dash moved his hands up, cuffing each of Tucker's wrists – narrow enough to fit handily together in one hand if he'd wanted – and drawing them up, above Tucker's head like some burlesque version of a gothic virgin sacrifice. Then, with Tucker's arms pinned securely to the mattress and hips similarly trapped by the caging nature of Dash's position, Dash stilled.

"Alright, there," he said, smiling as innocently as he could manage. "I'm out of ideas."

"Y—uhh, y-you're…_what?_" Tucker shook his head. "This is…and this is…_how is this supposed to keep me_ _awake?_"

Dash steeled himself, determined not to break composure. Really, that would ruin it. "Umm…well, I don't _think_ you're going to fall asleep like this," he pointed out reasonably. "I mean…I would think it would be pretty uncomfortable, mainly…"

"B-b-but…you…" Tucker stared. "You're not serious…you're totally not seriously serious…" Dash met his stare. "_Seriously?_"

Keeping a straight face was, honestly, the hardest part. "Well, I mean…unless you want me to do something _else_…"

"You…you are such…such a…a…" Tucker whined, "You're so _mean_…" he accused and pouted, and squirmed, and wriggled, and…

But all to no avail.

"_Dash_…"

"Yeah?"

"Dash."

"Yeah."

"_Dash_," Tucker squirmed again, lifting his hips and _trying_ to move, "…stop…"

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, well, that's exactly the _problem!_" Tucker burst in frustration, and Dash felt his pulse excite, "I _want_…" and a little more.

"What do you want?" Dash asked, struggling now to keep his voice even, and Tucker swallowed, closing his fists and then letting them relax again.

A boom of thunder rumbled outside, a sudden sheet of harsh raindrops tittering at the window, thrown against it by a gust of wind, and when Tucker's eyes met his, they looked darker and deeper, all but black, in the shadows.

"Kiss me…" he said, quietly, but clearly, and never in Dash's life had those two words held so much sway over his senses, spurring his heart to life like running a five-year-old through a flock of dozing sparrows.

Swallowing his pulse, Dash shut his eyes, and dipped forward.

* * *

**A/N:** Oh, jeez. They're in a bed, guys. At night. Alone. With _allll_ the lights out...

...my money's on the power coming back on and Dash having to take Tucker home...but that's just me. :P

The second half will also be from Dash's perspective, obviously, since it's still, you know...the same chapter. It was just too long. Seriously. I wouldn't _torture_ you with that much story all at once... I think I'm making myself sound sadistic, no matter how you take that.

On a completely different note...did anyone else notice that there are way too many similes this chapter? I think I just thought randomly "Hey, I don't think I've been using enough similes and metaphors lately..." and then proceeded to stuff this with them. Oh, joy...? Sorry if some of them were really weird or too long. I may have gotten a bit...overzealous.

P.S. The only reason Tucker's bigger than Dash is because every time "size" has ever been mentioned in a slash story I've read, whichever character typically ends up on bottom is ALWAYS smaller. Always. I.e., just me being a problem child again...and I also thought it was sort of cute. You know. To give Tucker a leg up. Let him be "manlier" in at least that one area... ... ...even though he's already way manlier than Dash in a lot of other ways. D: BUT, whatever. I'm done.

Peace and love, y'all. Wish me luck on my final exams.


	22. Harmony: II

**Chapter Twenty-Two:**

Harmony| II

_Sshhhhh_…

Rain beat out a tuneless percussion against the windowpanes, _tip-tap-pitter-patter_, like a tap dance that only nature herself knew the steps too, but on this night, her rhythm fell on deaf ears. Dash heard nothing over the beat of his heart.

He considered that maybe it wouldn't do to get his hopes up, or that really, this was simple and they'd done this a thousand times, and that was _true_ – for just this, anyway – but it did nothing to still his renegade senses.

Lightning lit the room, briefly. _One Mississippi, two_…

Thunder drum rolled.

Tucker's lips were cool – barely so, but still cool – a lingering reminder of where they'd come from (and by contrast, where they were now), and they opened under Dash's like petals under the light of dawn. And they kissed like that. Like there was no time limit: like they had all night, and all the next day, if they wanted it; like there was nothing to this _but_ kissing.

Dash forgot the pinning nature of his position, his shackling hands loosening their grip to a lighter, distracted hold, and Tucker shifted under him, but it was a lazy, contented shift, his former anxiousness gone. When a hand tugged to slide free of his grasp, Dash let it go, and was rewarded shortly after with fingers catching at the nape of his neck, twining into his hair and holding, gently.

A tongue teased the valley between his lips, petitioning entrance – which Dash granted – and a soft, muted groan escaped him of its own accord when their mouths opened fully to each other. He didn't bother asking if Tucker's answering shiver was from cold. He knew better.

It became a game, then, of sorts, the kind that, ironically enough, reminded Dash of making out with cheerleaders back in freshman year (when some of them were still innocent), where the single center-piece question was: _How far can I go?_

Entirely uncertain what Tucker planned on letting him get away with, given the necessarily limiting nature of their situation, Dash decided to start small, lowering his recently emptied right hand to Tucker's waist and letting it hover for a moment before, with the air of dipping one's toe in to test the water, experimentally teasing up the cloth there, begging permission for further exploration. He took the short, wordless sound of approval and subtle lifting of Tucker's hips as a "go" and slid his hand fully under.

A jagged exhale broke between their lips, and Dash wrestled a groan as Tucker arched into his touch.

It always surprised him, on a semi-subconscious level, how _fit_ Tucker was. Okay, no, sure he wasn't "built" in any traditional sense of the word. He was trim – almost gangly, but not quite – and wiry. But that trimness showcased lean, compact muscle that he hid under the baggy, unflattering clothes he favoured, and no, Tucker would not do well on a football team, but as a jockey? Or a sprinter? Why the heck not?

It was that muscle that Dash took the time to appreciate now: skimming his fingers over the flat expanse of Tucker's stomach, running them appraisingly over the understated dips and grooves of definition and feeling the muscles twitch receptively under his touch as he worked his way up. High on Tucker's chest – his shirt shoved far up, almost to shoulder level now – a pulse as wild as Dash's own beat against his palm, hard and fast, like they were getting away with something, and he supposed on some levels, they were; it still thrilled him to feel it.

Then, sheerly on accident, his hand happened over a pert nub of flesh – at attention from some combination of cold and stimulation – the brushing of which immediately incited a sharp, constrained jerk and an inhale abrupt enough to break a steady kiss.

Well, _that_ was interesting.

Curiosity peaked, Dash drew his thumb back down, repeating his previous motion, but with purpose this time. And Tucker's cheeks _radiated_ heat. He tilted his head to the side, shaking it back and forth and reaching down to push – weakly – at Dash's hand, as if to still it or shove it away. But his hips quivered up, seeking friction, the hand still pinned above his head twitching and tugging for freedom – which Dash denied, much to Tucker's apparent chagrin – and when Dash rocked his hips down, providing the grinding contact Tucker wanted, he found his attention monopolized by the site of Tucker's arching throat as he groaned, swallowing uselessly on any number of the most delicious of noises.

"Dash…"

"Mm?" Dash was dizzy. He wanted—okay, well, he wanted a _lot_ of things right about now, but if the power came back any time too soon and he had to take Tucker home and _masturbate_ to take care of this later…

"Dash…" Tucker squirmed, his pinned hand tugging more insistently, "…let me…I want to…"

…well, it would be a severe let down, in any case.

This time, Dash let up, and Tucker's hand darted immediately down, catching Dash's waist first, teasing the edge of his shirt up and then sweeping unhesitatingly under. Dash felt himself swallow, one hundred and ten percent of his attention zeroed in on the path of Tucker's fingers as they slid in low along the plane of his stomach. In, in, in – they came to rest in the center, directly over the snap of his jeans – one quarter inch more and-

_Click, click, click_…

Overhead, Dash's ceiling fan started a slow, quiet mechanical tap as it came to life. Behind them, the ventilation system in his bathroom purred out a low hum, and beside them, the nightlight by his bed sizzled for a brief moment before popping on, painting the carpet beneath it a soft yellow-pink.

Dash shut his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then:

"The power-"

"Yes," Tucker clipped, "I know…" It pleased Dash to note that he sounded at least as irritated as Dash felt. Then:

"I should-"

"Yes," Tucker cut in again, "I _know_…" and this time there was an edge of something else in there. Disappointment, sure. But of the sort that went beyond simple sexual frustration. "I know you should…" Tucker repeated, softer, and when Dash opened his eyes, Tucker had his head turned away, his lip tucked between his teeth.

He waited a moment before asking, "What are you thinking?" and Tucker turned his head back to face him. With the dim help of the nightlight, his eyes looked green again.

"It's…nothing," he said, shaking his head.

Dash waited.

"Just…before, I thought, maybe…if…well, obviously, if the power stayed _out_, then…" Abruptly, Tucker scrunched his eyes shut and huffed, frustrated. "Nevermind. It doesn't matter. You can take me home. I just…I mean," Again, his pace slowed, "I want…or, well, really I _don't_ want to…"

'…_what?_ _Stop? Go home? Explain things to your parents…?_'

When the sentence stayed unfinished, Dash opted to take a guess. "What would you tell your parents?" he asked. "You know, if…well, like…if you, if we, umm…" Wow, this had never been this hard before. Shit. Come on, Dash, just take a deep breath… "If you, you know…" His heart slammed his ribcage, "…stayed here?" and Tucker's eyes immediately opened back up, anger and frustration gone completely, replaced a tentative, curios hope. Had he forgotten that Dash wanted this as much as he did? At least it stilled some of Dash's panic.

"I would tell them that it was late," Tucker said carefully, "and that the streets were slick with icy rain and fog…and that we decided we didn't think it would be safe, even with the street lights back on…" He paused for a moment, and then added, "…and I might tell them that you let me sleep in a guest bedroom, depending on how mortified they looked."

Dash let out a held breath as steadily as he could manage and smiled a moment after, chuckling. "_Do_ you want to sleep in a guest bedroom?"

Tucker's glare was priceless. "If you even _try-_"

"Okay, okay, okay," Dash kissed him silent; the best method he'd come across to date, "you don't have to sleep in a guest bedroom…" He hesitated, "…unless of course you really _want_ to, and then in that case obviously we have one and of course I'll let you-"

"_Dash_," Tucker cut him off solidly, putting a thumb to his lips and almost smiling, too, as he shook his head, meeting Dash's eyes dead on, "I _don't_ want to sleep in a guest bedroom…okay?"

"Okay," Dash said softer, the movement of his lips brushing along Tucker's thumb – still in place on his mouth – and he kissed it; was Tucker blushing? "Then…" His heart pounded almost painfully in his chest, "…do you want to…you know, actually…"

Yeah, Tucker was definitely blushing.

"Umm…yes?"

"Not just…"

"No." Tucker shook his head, more decisive this time, and Dash swallowed despite his best intentions.

"Okay," he said.

"B-b-but," Tucker added unexpectedly, a moment before he leaned in, "if we're going to…you know, I want…umm…"

"Yes?" Dash asked, after a sustained pause, and Tucker took a breath, visibly gathering his wits.

"Can we…_not_…make this…like, you know, a…race to the finish?" he asked, unbearably tentative, and Dash wrestled with the tension in his throat, wondering how he could even _ask_ that so hesitantly.

Instead of saying that aloud, however, he kissed Tucker's forehead, and then his temple, and then his cheek, and he said, "Relax…" quietly, not only in answer to the question, but also because Tucker was shaking again, barely perceptibly, and this time Dash was willing to bet it wasn't all cold _or_ excitement – even if that was part of it. "We have all night," he said, and Tucker smiled through his nervousness.

"Yeah, umm…I guess we kina do, huh?" he said, his thumb at Dash's neck brushing down in an absently tender gesture as he spoke, and Dash nodded, eyes tracing the lines of light and shadow Tucker's glasses cast on his cheeks and lingering on the extra touch of darkness there that was his blush.

"Yeah," he reiterated at last, "we do."

And as quick as that, the whole game changed.

It wasn't about getting in what they could before he had to take Tucker home. It wasn't about getting off before they got caught, or getting away with something behind everyone's backs. In fact, it wasn't even about finally getting _laid_ anymore – even though that part was, admittedly, rather exciting in and of itself – and upon thinking that, Dash realized he wasn't quite sure _what_ it was about. Only that he was somehow simultaneously thrilled, and terrified – more so than he had _ever_ been about the prospect of sex – and that no matter _what_, he didn't want to mess this up.

Fretting, though, he decided, wouldn't do either of them any good, in the long run, and he pushed the thoughts away as they rearranged themselves on the bed, moving to lie length-wise as opposed to perpendicularly. He wondered in passing – as their lips met again, slowly – if it were in the least bit possible that he was more nervous than Tucker. Probably not, he concluded eventually, trying to be fair, and yet…

He just wanted to do this right.

Maybe this was what it felt like to actually care about the person you were about to sleep with?

He decided that _that_, too, could wait til later – preferably much, much later – and in real time, he gave Tucker's shirt a meaningful tug that said "off" as clearly as any word and took the opportunity to follow suit as Tucker obliged. That earned him some degree of ogling, and, dropping the offensive material carelessly off the edge of the bed, he raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

Tucker shook his head. "Noth…umm, nothing," he said, though his eyes sang a different tune, and Dash _mmhm_ed disbelievingly, leaning in and dropping a kiss between Tucker's jaw and neck, relishing in the stutter of his pulse beneath his skin.

"Sure…" he said, and opened his mouth to lick the juncture, enticing a quick swallow, "I _totally_ believe you…" and Tucker's attempt at a snort came off only half successful, its effect marred nicely as Dash travelled further down his neck.

"Al…right," Tucker conceded, propped back on his elbows now and palms flat on the comforter, "if you…must know…" Dash came to the base of Tucker's throat and dipped his tongue into the groove there, and Tucker's fingers bent against the sheets, making a soft scuffing sound as he drew a breath through his nose, "…it just…" It was nice, too, being able to go further down than that. "It always…I don't know, catches me off guard, how beau—mm…" He stalled, "…err, how…uhh, nevermind…" he finished awkwardly, obviously not as he originally intended, and when Dash looked up, he caught Tucker's guilty look the moment before he glanced away.

He observed the behaviour with puzzlement. "Were you gonna call me beautiful?"

Tucker's look intensified, like a child, caught saying the wrong thing, and he shook his head. "I…didn't, umm…I figured you wouldn't like that word…" he mumbled at last, softer, and Dash huffed, "…and anyway, you don't really seem to like it too much when I compliment how you look, so-"

"I didn't say I didn't like that word…" Dash cut him off without raising his voice a decibel above Tucker's soft mutter, and if nothing else, it got him his boyfriend's attention, "…and I never said I don't like the compliments-"

"But last time-"

"You remember what happened last time?" he asked, and then, without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Last time, I objected to you not letting me compliment you back, and you looked at me like I was a dumbass for wanting to…"

Tucker sank an inch; Dash imagined that if he were a turtle, this would be the equivalent of shrinking back into his shell. Great start, this. "Lots of people avoid compliments…"

"Yes, right, lots of people…you know who've I've known to turn back compliments?" Dash asked. "Probably every single one of my girlfriends," he stated point blank. "You wanna know what the difference is?" Tucker opened his mouth. "They don't _mean_ it," Dash said before he got a word in. "When you tell a beautiful girl that her eyes glow brighter and more beautifully than a cloudless sky of stars and that you'd drag down the moon for her if you could, she'll giggle and blush, and she might say 'Oh, don't be silly, I'm not that special…' but you know what else? She's lying through her _teeth_. She _knows_ she's gorgeous. She _knows_ she has you wrapped around her finger, and she wants you to tell her more. But _you_…" Dash shook his head, helplessly lost. "You don't even…if I even _tried_…"

Tucker tilted his head, an odd, curious smile tugging on his lips. "You think my eyes glow brighter and more beautifully than a cloudless sky of stars?" he asked, and Dash blinked up, startled.

"I love your eyes," he said, blurting it heedlessly in that first second as if it were the most obvious and natural answer in the world. Then, cued in partially by Tucker's verging on slack-jawed expression, the nature of his admittance hit in full, and heat flooded into Dash's cheeks. "B-but, that…that wasn't what I—I di-"

Tucker closed his mouth over the words, and – startled into momentary inaction – Dash actually _watched_ Tucker kiss him for the first few seconds: watched black lashes drop to paint feathery crescents on his cheeks, watched him reach up and brush his chin before settling in the nook between his neck and shoulder. And then…

Then Dash's eyelids felt weighted, begging to drop, and he gave in, kissing back until Tucker withdrew just enough to say, "Okay…it's okay, I get it…" and Dash opened his eyes again to find warmth, humour, and the barest spark of something else undefinable lingering in Tucker's eyes. "You think I'm sexy, I understand…"

Dash dropped his forehead to Tucker's.

"Yeah, babe," he grumbled, "I think you're sexy…that was the _whole_ point behind _everything_ I just…" but when Tucker's soft, bubbling snicker sent warm air tickling over his lips, Dash shut his eyes in defeat, "…said…" and decided that yes, in fact, it _was_ completely impossible to stay frustrated with this boy for more than a few, brief seconds. He sighed. "One day," he muttered quietly, and made it a vow, "I'm going to _prove_ to you, whether you like it or not, that I _love_…" Tucker blinked, Dash's heart tripped on a beat, distracting him, and for a moment, he forgot what he was going to say, "…umm…" He frowned, "…everything…" The words came slower, and clumsier than he intended, "…about the way you…are…"

Shit.

What the _fuck_ did that mean?

It certainly wasn't what he meant to say. He _still_ wasn't sure what he meant to say. Appearance. That's what they had been talking about. Yeah? Yeah. So…he loved everything about the way Tucker _looked_? Yeah, that must've been what he'd wanted to say. It made _sense_…right? Under Tucker's startled, suddenly calculating gaze, Dash shifted anxiously.

"Dash-"

"I _just_ meant," Dash jumped back in, adamant, "that I don't like you putting yourself down. _I_ like you." Good, much better, he thought. Like was a good word; a safe word. He could deal with like. "And I…I just don't want you different…okay?"

Something in Tucker relaxed.

"Okay," he said, back to smiling, though the curiosity stubbornly lingered, "I'll work on keeping that in mind…" and Dash breathed easier.

"Good," he grunted, and leaned over to the side, rearranging enough so he could open and reach into the drawer in his bedside dresser.

Something had been very, _very_ narrowly avoided, Dash knew, and Tucker was far too clever not to have noticed, but he appeared willing to let it go for now, and that was all the permission Dash needed to shove the concept as far into the back reaches of his mind as it would go, and return instead to the more immediate task at hand: making Tucker forget his nerves.

In his experience with breaching new sexual barriers, it generally helped to stick with familiar things for as long as possible, reviewing the bases, so to speak, so that by the time they finally worked around to the home run, it felt more like one more baby step down a well-trodden path rather than a daunting leap into uncharted territory.

It was that mindset that guided him down Tucker's body: tracing his lips over each of the areas only his fingers had tread earlier, mentally cataloguing what actions in which places produced what sorts of results, and gauging the relative effectiveness of butterfly kisses vs. open-mouthed kisses vs. taste-testing licks.

He found that butterfly kisses produced short, sharp inhales and the shifting of fingers in the sheets. Open-mouthed kisses earned deeper, headier breaths, along with the occasional swallow. And licking produced squirming, sometimes with whining. Unable to choose, Dash opted for the easiest route and mixed in all three.

By the time he made it to Tucker's midsection, his boyfriend was in an all but constant state of breathlessness, writhing ceaselessly against his restraining hold – in the form of a pinning hand taking up residence on Tucker's right hip – and keeping his eyes stubbornly shut.

"Dash-"

Then, Dash drew his tongue in an experimental loop around Tucker's navel, and was suddenly very grateful to have him pinned down, lest he be butted in the head by the immediate, startled jerk – and subsequent yelp – that followed.

When he glanced up, Tucker had clapped a hand over his mouth, and on seeing Dash look, he shook his head rapidly.

"Don-don't do…wh-what are you…doing?" he asked, drawing his hand away just enough to speak clearly, and Dash raised his eyebrows.

"Mmm…kissing your stomach?" he replied, and Tucker huffed, distracted.

"No, not…not…" He shook his head again. "Dash," That part almost sounded like a whine, "belly buttons are…_nasty_…you shou-shouldn—_nnhh_…"

And of course, the sentence never made it, breaking off in lei Dash dipping his tongue down _into_ the aforementioned crevice, observing with great interest as Tucker's hand flew back over his mouth, barely muffling a low, broken groan and eyelids drooping heavily to half-mast in the process. Emboldened, Dash drew out, and then dipped back in – _in,_ out,_ in_, out,_ in, __**curl**_ – Tucker's hips quivered under his palm, eyes dropping fully shut as he panted into his palm, and Dash thought, '_Well, __**this**__ is useful…_'

Who knew? Tucker had a sensitive _bellybutton_ of all places.

Satisfied with his discovery, Dash gave a last, complimentary suckle to the abused area – which earned him a weak _mewl_ – before taking mercy and withdrawing completely, smirking outright as he turned his attention lower still.

Not surprisingly, Tucker was already doing an impressive job of filling out his oversized boxers, and when Dash drew an assessing thumb down the length of his jeans zip, the trapped package beneath twitched appreciatively at the long-denied attention, and Tucker's hips – probably all of their own accord – pushed eagerly up into his exploring touch. Tucker's head sank into the pillows.

Dash kissed the skin just above the waistline of Tucker's pants, flat between his belly and the top snap of his jeans, and shifted from simply teasing with his fingers, to cupping the prominent bulge beneath them outright. Tucker's answering groan sent a fresh, ample supply of blood to his own neglected cock, but he continued to ignore it for the time being, appreciating instead the way Tucker's legs readily spread farther at his slightest coaxing, rocking into his palm and urging him on.

Finally, fed up of even his own teasing, Dash briefly entertained the notion of instructing Tucker to simply rid himself of his pants and undergarments altogether and have it be done with. Then, though – with some degree of reluctance – he considered that allowing his boyfriend to _keep_ his clothes (and in doing so maintain at least some theoretical level of "decency") for as long as possible would probably help keep his nerves to a minimum.

It took only a second for Tucker's comfort to win out over practicality, and Dash opened Tucker's jeans himself. At his urging, Tucker lifted his hips, too, giving him the room to pull his pants and boxers alike down to somewhere around mid-thigh area: low enough to give access, but still "on" so that Tucker wouldn't be the lone, completely naked body on the bed.

It wasn't ideal, but Dash had worked around worse. In any case, the sound Tucker made upon Dash's fingers closing around and giving a first, sure stroke to his bare erection more than made up for any technical awkwardness.

Oh, and fuck traditional standards of beauty; Tucker looked _hot_ like this – one hand fisted above his head, tightly buried in the pillows, the other in the sheets, and legs knocked as far apart as his pants allowed, the rest of him naked down to his thighs – and right then, he was for no one but Dash. It was with _that_ in mind that Dash dipped his head, guiding Tucker's cock to his lips and then drawing his tongue up the length of it. He moved up in slow, exploratory laps, tasting and curling his tongue experimentally around it as he went, relishing in the way Tucker's entire body quivered as one when he moaned.

When he reached the top, he gave one quick, darting lick that lapped over the tip, and then finally dropped down, taking in as much as comfortably fit in his mouth – and then a little more. Tucker buried his groan in his palm. If not for his otherwise occupied mouth, Dash would have suggested that he make all the noise he damn well pleased. It wasn't as if there was anyone else in the house to _disturb_, and noise was sexy. Even the muffled sounds Tucker failed to cover went directly to Dash's now achingly unattended cock, already quite adamantly fighting a losing battle with his jeans (making him consider that maybe _he_ should have stripped before this started).

Retrospect, he thought, shutting his eyes and suckling around his mouthful. Then, when gently clinging, barely urging fingers tangled in his hair, the soft pads of Tucker's skin brushing at his scalp, just short of stroking, and sending a tingling shiver of awareness straight through him, Dash groaned himself, sparking a brief tensing of said fingers, and he thought: '_Okay, yeah, __**never**__ wearing jeans to bed again when there's the possibility of an extended hard-on…_'

About there, he let his own hands start to roam, taking advantage of Tucker's distracted state to slide a free hand down, over the bare expanse of his thigh, and in, tracing wandering, curious patterns across whatever blank slate of his skin he could reach. He moved with a purpose, though, and by the time Tucker's breath started to shorten, growing more erratic with every inhale, Dash's hands were already low, teasing in and smoothing over his bared ass in intervals. Thus, when his fingers finally brushed over his tailbone and down, venturing just far enough to graze Tucker's-

"F-fuck, Dash, I'm-"

Immediately, Dash withdrew, circling the base of Tucker's erection to stall his release, and earning him a very impassioned, keening protest, not at all helped when he sat up, making it quite obvious he didn't plan on finishing anything now.

"_Dash_-"

"Shhh…" Dash whispered in spite of Tucker's most stubborn objections, leaning in and holding his boyfriend wilfully still through all his attempted squirming. "Not yet," he said, and caught Tucker's doleful pout in an amused kiss before sitting back up. "C'mon…" He tapped Tucker's already impressively dishevelled jeans, "…these gotta go," and he noted with some degree of self-satisfaction that there wasn't an _iota_ nervousness and/or hesitance involved in Tucker's method of complying, namely: chucking off his clothes as if he'd contracted a violent allergic aversion to all things denim and polyester over the course of the past two seconds.

Tucker was naked before Dash got his zip undone.

Dash snickered.

Tucker huffed.

Dash slowed his hands-

"_Oh for_-" Tucker started, exasperated, but just before he scrambled forward, Dash laughed aloud and shed the last of his clothes. When his boyfriend stilled, lips pursed, Dash grinned.

"Aww, come on," he teased, crawling forward. "_You're_ supposed to be the sweet, shy, nervous-"

There was a soft _fffwp_ sound as Tucker's back hit the sheets again, head sinking into the pillows as he scoffed. Then, glancing up a moment later, he tilted his head. "Oh, wait, you were serious?"

Dash rolled his eyes. "Mm…maybe not," he admitted, softer, but as he leaned in, dropping a kiss to Tucker's forehead, silence settled like a thin gauze, the titter of raindrops filling in over the lull in their talking and giving room for weighted realities to sink in, and for the first time since the initial '_Do you want to actually…?_' and '_Yes_' Dash's heart gave a hard, trepid thump.

It was the first time they had ever been completely naked in each other's presence.

They were really, really doing this.

He didn't mean to swallow. He wasn't _that_ worried, he just-

Fingers brushed his chest, barely grazing at first before splaying slowly out to a full, flat palm that settled over his heart, unmoving, and "You're right…" Tucker said softly, "I am the one who's supposed to be nervous…"

Dash exhaled, though it felt something more like breathing out his heartbeat. "You're…not—?"

"Shit, are you _kidding?_" Tucker bounced back, only half-aghast through his smile, and though tremulous, Dash's next laugh came easier. "C'mon, seriously, though…one of us has to at least _pretend_ like we're all calm, cool, and collected here…" And then, in a confidential whisper, "And if _you_ panic, Dash, I swear to everything I'll fall to pieces…"

Dash, cheeks warm, bent his head forward, leaning in till their foreheads touched, and "Okay," he conceded, abashed, "you're right, sorry, I just…" He took another breath, filling his lungs through his nose. Tucker smelled like rain. Before he lost his nerve, he blurted: "I'm just scared I'll hurt you, is all…I've never…it's just…what if I mess up? Or what if I do something wrong? Or…I mean…_you've_ never done this before, how do you know…like, what if you actually don't like it? Or-"

A finger touched his lips, and "Dash…" was gentle, almost amused.

"Hm?" was breathy, still nervous despite his best intentions.

"You know that thing where I ramble and go on and on and on about something even when I don't need to?" Tucker asked, and Dash blinked.

"Yeah, sure. You do that all the time. Why?"

Tucker smiled. "You know you're doing that, right?"

Dash blushed. "Oh."

"Do you need me to, umm…" Here, finally, Tucker showed signs of trepidation again – his brow furrowing ever so slightly and eyes darting briefly away, "…like…roll ov—?"

"Nah," Dash shook his head before Tucker even finished, reeling confidence back in in the face of Tucker's hesitance, "just, umm…stay just like you are," he said, bending to place a single, quick kiss on Tucker's lips. When he returned to more or less his previous position, though, Tucker raised an eyebrow. Dash snorted. "Don't give me that look…I totally have a plan…"

"Oh, uh-huh," Tucker started, "and what exactly is this-s—_sssnmm_…" His words died off in the face of silencing lick to his recently-abandoned nether-parts – still impressively attentive, Dash noted – and Dash chuckled.

"Hmm, what was that?" he asked, and there was a scuffling of cloth as Tucker shook his head.

"Y…mm…never, uhh…mind," he said definitively, and Dash grinned.

He _did_ have a plan.

It just happened to require Tucker's distraction, which would have been much more difficult to attain had he let him cum the first time around.

It was also _amazing_ how much easier things got without clothes binding his boyfriend's legs half shut.

So, without further ado, he shrugged, mumbling a compliant, "If you say so…" and took Tucker back into his mouth unforgivably quickly the next second. Luckily, the cap to the lube unscrewed easily enough single-handedly, and Tucker's hitched mewl handily covered Dash's first grunt at '_Well, __**damn **__this shit's cold_…'

Maybe they could invest in heat-on-contact lube. That could have some interesting results.

He nudged Tucker's leg. Just a bit…there; Tucker took the hint, spreading without resistance, and Dash shifted his weight and position just enough to bring his hand in, and-

Tucker's fingers fisted instantly at the first touch, and Dash stilled, waiting. Only when Tucker released his breath – and his grip – waving him distractedly on, did Dash continue: running his thumb experimentally back and forth over the tight ring of muscle, every now and then applying just enough pressure to test its resistance, but never breaching. He kept this up as Tucker's tension gradually eased, and then longer still until his legs just started to shake, his initial nerves melting in the face of rising sexual frustration and body starting to rock barely perceptibly back _towards_ Dash's fingers instead of away, impatient for some follow through.

Only at the first, muted whine of "Dash…" though, did Dash spare his boyfriend a glance, and Tucker swallowed as he watched, "…please, just-"

Dash obliged, finally breaching, and – _fuck _Tucker was tight – Tucker's eyes, open a second before, fluttered back shut with panted groan, his body tensing rebelliously against the intrusion, fighting it on instinct. So Dash waited. He returned the majority of his attention to Tucker's cock, using his spare hand and his mouth in tandem to draw back Tucker's focus once more. Very little at first, and then gradually more obviously, he started to move the finger inside of Tucker in time with the strokes to his erection, and bit by bit, it worked. Tucker adjusted – first relaxing, slowly, and stretching – and then, at long last, starting to participate again.

When Tucker's toes were curling in the sheets, his back in a near-permanent arch and body rocking back on his hand with each stroke, Dash added a second digit – which met less resistance, surprisingly enough, than the first – and at the same point after that, he added a third.

"Fuck," Tucker panted, fingers closing in the pillow over his head, "Dash…"

Dash, _hmm?_ed nondescriptly, earning a keening groan at the vibrations caused, and he smirked around his mouthful. When he curled his fingers, though, apparently he hit something right (and managed to catch Tucker completely off-guard) because-

"_OhfuckDashdontIll_-"

But the warning came too late, Tucker's body already jerking with a natural spasm, and Dash drew back, surprised, but not fast enough to avoid getting a quick taste of something hot, wet, and salty. Tucker whined guiltily in the sheets.

"S-sorry," he started immediately, "I didn't mea-mmn—nnn…" His words fell off, lashes flitting back shut as Dash used his spare hand to guide his still-sensitized body the rest of the way through his release. Only when the spasms stopped completely, Tucker's agile body going soft and malleable in his hands, did Dash lay off, and Tucker watched him through half-lidded eyes, _finally_ at a loss for words.

After scarcely a second's worth of debate, Dash took the opportunity to lean down – muttering a decisive, "Shh," when Tucker opened his mouth to object – and drew his tongue lethargically through the semi-translucent stain on Tucker's stomach. He could have sworn, despite the near impossibility of picking it up on dark skin even at close range that Tucker's blush _still_ made itself visible.

Honestly, Dash wasn't the type to hold romanticized illusions about the awesome "taste" of sex fluids. That said, it really _wasn't_ that objectionable, either, and Tucker's expression made the venture more than worthwhile. When he withdrew his fingers, Tucker shivered, eyes almost falling shut, but then following him as he moved up once more, repositioning until he hovered at eye level.

"If it feels good and it doesn't hurt me," Dash asserted, "don't apologize," and Tucker, eyes dark but attentive beneath him, nodded mutely, "and-" but the rest of that never made it, Tucker drawing a gentle, tentative thumb on along an aimless path down his cheek, and Dash wondered silently how, after all that had just transpired, such a simple, innocently tender gesture could still send heat rushing to his cheeks and stall up the air in his throat. Instead of dwelling on it, he allowed Tucker's clasping fingers to draw him forward, and sank greedily into the kiss offered.

Dash realized he was only vaguely aware of Tucker's left hand as it fumbled about around his waist, notably more focussed on his right hand – as it tangled in his hair – and his tongue – as it tangled in his mouth. At least, until that second hand wrapped around his-

"Mmnngh," Dash grunted breathlessly into Tucker's open mouth, his hips twitching forward in surprised appreciation—because, well, fuck, _he_ hadn't really been touched all night, had he?—and his fingers closed in the sheets to either side of Tucker's shoulders, his eyes shutting as he rocked into the caress. "Fuck, Tucker…"

Tucker shifted, legs moving out, edging a little wider to either side and emphasizing that oh, right, they _didn't_ have to settle for just this, this time.

Just Tucker's long fingers drawing slow, coaxing strokes up his cock, Tucker's hot tongue dipping back into his mouth as he bent his hips up, skirting it along the roof of his mouth as he circled his thumb over the head of Dash's cock, and-

'_Focus_,' Dash thought stubbornly, groaning in spite of himself at the practiced ministrations and exercising a substantial amount of self-control just to break himself off of Tucker's mouth. "We need…" he started breathlessly. "I mean, I need…" He blinked, because he was _sure_ he'd grabbed-

Tucker held up a hand between them, a small square of plastic trapped between two fingers, as he asked, "This little doohickey?" and Dash's face warmed.

"I…yes, that," he said. "How…?"

"I'm ninja, every now and then," Tucker explained casually, his tone neutral and unassuming, and for a long moment, Dash stared. Then, unable to help it, he snickered, soft and understated but there nonetheless as he shook his head, and he leaned in.

"You," he assessed, dropping a kiss to Tucker's nose as he retrieved the snitched package from his fingers, "are ridiculous…" and Tucker's grin, despite all, was baldly cheeky.

"Maybe so," he consented agreeably, "but you love it."

Dash was ninety-nine percent sure – given his open smile and the warm manner in which he said it – that it _wasn't_ a carefully designed ploy to make his heart hurl itself at the wall of his chest, but-

Dash dipped his head, hiding it for a moment against the curve of Tucker's neck and shoulder to avoid betraying himself.

"Dash—?"

"Yes," Dash was proud of himself for not swallowing around the word or croaking it ridiculously, "I do…" he admitted, and he kissed Tucker's open mouth before it said anything else to make him act a fool.

Then, all else aside, it was really only a matter of _how_ exactly they were going to do this.

Tucker's next question reflected that sentiment. "So…_now_ do you need me to…?" He made a meaningful turning motion with his head, his cheeks gorgeously dark, and it was strange, Dash thought as debate gripped him. It made sense, of course; it would be simpler, less awkward, and with girls, he had always _preferred_ it if he could get them on all fours – so he could appreciate a nice ass and an androgynous back, instead of bouncing breasts and a painted face – but in this case…

His heart beat a powerful, anticipatory rhythm in his throat as he shook his head. "No, I think…" He drew a quick breath, "…like this should be fine," he said, and the brief flicker of relief and subtle softening in the set of Tucker's expression immediately solidified his choice.

There was no "Okay," or "Are you ready?" the both of those being understood as Tucker nodded, and his patterned breathing barely tripped on a half beat before he schooled it back in line as Dash brought himself into position, his fingers at Dash's neck clutching only the slightest bit tighter in self-preparation.

When Dash first breached him, Tucker didn't whimper, or moan, or cry. He clung. As Dash's mind went dizzy with sensation, spiralling in perhaps a thousand different directions at once, he still somehow rallied the will to keep his eyes open, to _watch_ as Tucker bit his lip and held his breath, screwed his eyes hard shut behind his glasses and drew his body up taut as a bowstring, and-

Dash's eyes fluttered low, weighted, a broken pant escaping his lips like a long-caged bird rushing for freedom, as he lost his pace halfway in.

Because _fuck_ if Tucker wasn't tighter than a corset.

Dash buried a muted groan against the curve of Tucker's neck and shoulder, and Tucker's successive exhale stirred the hairs at the back of his neck, slim fingers digging not-quite-uncomfortably into his shoulder.

"Tucker…" Dash breathed the name, turning his head to where his nose nudged the lobe of Tucker's ear, his lips brushing scant fractions of an inch from his neck, "…you've got…to-"

"R-mmm…r-relax," Tucker panted in turn, nodding, but not opening his eyes. "Yeah, I…know, I jus-"

Dash kissed his neck, a soft, open kiss that felt the pulse of movement as Tucker swallowed in turn, and he moved up, to the corner of his jaw. When he closed his teeth gently over the free skin of Tucker's earlobe, his boyfriend shivered, and Tucker tilted his head the next second, catching Dash's wandering mouth in a tangled kiss. That time, Dash's lips swallowed the vibrations of Tucker's moan as he resumed movement, and two shallow groans mingled indistinguishably when he buried himself completely.

'_Fuck, fuck, fuck_…'

Tucker gave a small, keening pant. "Shit, _Dash_…"

"Mm?" Dash swallowed hard, dizzily trying to gain focus, because if Tucker didn't _loosen up_ just a _little_, this was all going to be over way too soon. "Yeah?"

"You…can-"

Dash shook his head, "No, I…can't," fully aware that the words came out coarse and breathless and frankly not giving a damn, because Tucker's body was nothing but heat and pressure – lean and tight and encompassing all around him – his breaths short puffs of warm, humid air that skated over Dash's like teasing dancers, and his heartbeat powerful enough in his chest to feel between their twined bodies.

Apparently catching his drift, the corner of Tucker's lip curved – just barely at first, and then bigger, blooming until it verged on something far closer to a grin than anything else, and-

Damn him for that look.

Dash kissed him, masking the cheeky smugness and adorable everything else and serving to distract both Tucker and himself, and the next moment, with about as much control as he could ever hope for at this point reigned back in, he proceeded to move.

Tucker's body shuddered around him, his mouth going mutely slack for long moment – weak and open against their kiss – before abruptly resuscitating itself, and returning with sudden relish. As their pants mingled openly, Tucker's fingers taking up residence in his hair as if they both might topple over some imposing precipice otherwise and Dash's mind blurring until the world consisted of some tangled smear of titillating heat and euphoria, he decided that, fuck yes, he could get used to this.

He wondered, as one groan sank intermittently into another and his fingers dug almost violently into the pillows in order to keep up the near torturous pace necessary to allow Tucker time to adjust, if it could possibly be only that he hadn't had this for _that long_ – so long that he had forgotten that it could feel this good, so long that the details had faded to the extent that this just _seemed_ leap years beyond anything he'd tried before – or if, perhaps, it really did have something to do with this being _Tucker_ beneath him – Tucker, who he'd seen in so many lights, now, who's laugh could make his day and smile could turn his insides to jelly – and Dash decided, to be fair, it was probably a little of both – with humbling emphasis on the fact that this was Tucker, and that it wouldn't be right, were it anyone else.

Gradually, Tucker adjusted, allowing for more, faster, with less resistance. When he started stroking his fingers along Dash's neck roughly in time with his thrusts, subtly moving to start rocking back on them, Dash took that as permission enough to pick up the pace. His executive decision met positive results.

"Fuck…" Tucker's back arched with the pant, his feet scuffing in the sheets, "Dash…" and oh, yeah, he knew how to make Dash's name sound _sexy_.

Dash lifted his head, making a study Tucker's ream of expressions as he drew out, slowly, gauging the way his lips parted and his eyebrows drew together, the way the slower pace enticed a soft, whining moan, and then-

"_Mmmnph_…" Tucker jerked his own hand immediately over his mouth when Dash drove back in, keening into the makeshift muzzle of his palm as his body bucked into the onslaught – because apparently Dash hit _something_ right, if that reaction meant anything – and Dash made a low, huffing sound, stooping to nudge away at the hand.

"Off," he grunted, kissing Tucker's open mouth the instant it was made available before backing up again and adding, as he met Tucker's eyes, "I want to hear _all_ the sounds you make…" When Tucker's lips clapped shut, gorgeous green eyes wide, Dash chuckled, pressing another kiss to his blush. "You're adorable, y'know that?"

"Mm…" Tucker's lashes dipped as Dash resumed movement, taking his time. "Y-yeah, well…if you want…_that_ noise, you'll have…to…" Pant, "…uhh-mm…fuck…"

"Got that covered…"

"D-dammit, Dash! Y—_nngh_…" Tucker arched again, but biting his lip wasn't half as effective as muffling with his palm, and his choked, wanting moan thrilled Dash's senses, "…fuck yes, please…like that again…" Scrawling a quick, mental note, Dash did his best to comply.

He found that, as it did with girls, varying his pace and angle, even just slightly, garnered plenty of satisfactory results. It was hitting _there_ (reliably) that provided the true challenge, but at least he got better at it as things went along. Before long, the scattered mutters of curses of various stripes degraded altogether into unintelligible grunts and heaving – on the both of their parts – but Dash still managed to retain enough awareness to harness Tucker's wayward hand when it started to inch southward – much to Tucker's distress.

"_Dash_…" Tucker fought the grip on his wrist with bleary persistence, "…let me…" He wriggled, "…I want…" and it was pretty obvious what he wanted, his trapped erection brushing against Dash's stomach every now and then when he arched, but otherwise receiving little to no real attention, but Dash, already decided, shook his head.

"Here, I've got an…idea," he said, guiding Tucker's hand out and away. He placed it on Tucker's knee, urging him to hold it up and out some, towards his chest but to the side. "There, hold it…like that," he instructed, earning himself a soft, huffed whine.

"But…" Tucker started to object, "…this is…em…b-barrass-ss…in—nnghmm…ahh-uhh…Dash…" As Dash's hand took up the job Tucker's was headed for, circling Tucker's weeping cock and providing steady, goading strokes tailor-made to drive his boyfriend insane (as this _was_ something he'd had a lot of practice with, so far) Tucker's problems with the situation naturally disappeared rather rapidly, and Dash's own body reacted more than favourably to the resulting sight, his eyes drinking in the show as Tucker's head dug back into the pillows again, partially dislodging his glasses, and his Adam's apple bobbed desperately to swallow down the moans that still crawled their way out of his throat anyway. He did his job, too, though, holding himself spread and open, his fingers digging into his knee even as his breathing took on an even less regular, more rapid and hitched quality.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck…fuck…ing…hell, shit…_Dash_…" Tucker squirmed as he cursed, rocking into Dash's hand and onto his cock in an erotic teeter-totter. When Dash slowed his hand, Tucker practically yelped, keening and tossing his head desperately, "No, no, no…Dash, _please_, I'm so…so…" and Dash swallowed hard, almost having to stop altogether in order to avoid losing it himself in that moment, his body already wound up tight as a vice.

He reigned it in, though, and kept moving, making, "What d'you want?" a low, almost growled question, but Tucker was too far gone to object.

"I…want…" His glasses were going to fall off any second now, "…want to…mmngh…" Dash leaned in, dipping down so that the last words were a small, panted whisper against his lips, "…wannacum_please_…" and Dash smirked, triumphant as he caught Tucker's lower lip with his teeth, whetting it and then suckling as he skimmed his thumb over the head of Tucker's cock, treasuring his boyfriend's shaking moan.

"Good job," he praised, releasing Tucker's mouth just enough to speak. "You're beautiful like this…" Up close, he could hear every hitch and every pant, "…and I love it…"

"_Dash_-"

As Tucker's body arched and his breath caught and held, Dash buried the last words against the curve of his neck, "Come for me, baby…" and Tucker jerked, freezing up with a broken whine before doing just that, spilling for the second time that night into Dash's hand and between their stomachs.

Dash milked him, fucking him slowly as he spiralled down from that initial high, observing closely as he crumbled into something soft and satiated and entirely meek and willing in his arms. And then, it was entirely Dash's game.

He had all the time in the world to draw things out, savour it, as Tucker drew gentle, lazy circles along his neck. And yet, release was an epic temptress, and Tucker's kiss, when he took it, was sweet, and tender, and rallying, and after their mouths drew apart, as Tucker's lashes flicked easily, lazily upwards to reveal an unspoken, intimate contentment in those warm green eyes, something else – achingly familiar now – stirred in Dash's gut. It tightened, in his chest and his throat, like butterflies and an invisible noose at the same time, too much to whisper as his body wound up for release, but maybe just enough to at least acknowledge, finally, just this once.

So, despite his best intentions, when his forehead fell to Tucker's and his breath caught in his throat, his heart tossing itself wildly against the confines of its bodily cage, he gave in, and let it through, confessing a desperate mental, '_I love you…_' in the half second before he toppled over that invisible precipice, losing himself in Tucker's body.

His forearms shook to hold him as the aftershocks wore down, but all Dash could hear was his heartbeat, slamming like a war drum as if he'd said the words aloud, dancing to a thrilled, panicked, _terrified_ rhythm, and all he could think was _when_ had this happened? Why—_how?_ And what-

Tucker caught his mouth, gently, oblivious, but it didn't matter. Dash took what solace he could get, surrendering to the kiss, devoting himself to it as his mind raced, because…

Dash knew better than _anyone_ that sex did not equal love. He couldn't possibly have just suddenly "fallen in love" with Tucker simply because they'd finally gone and done it. It didn't make _sense_. Maybe he'd said he did here or there, but in reality he'd never felt anything more than a mild, passing interest in any of his previous girlfriends, let alone actually _cared_ about any of them, and yet…

There was no way this was anything else. Now that he'd let the thought through once, it was all he could _think_, filling him and bubbling up and straining at the seams until it was all he could do not to say it, out loud and over and over again at that.

But he couldn't do that either. Surely, he couldn't do that…right? Not now, not so suddenly, out of the blue, without any…any…

Unknowingly, Tucker soothed him through the initial panic, kissing him until his heart no longer hurt (so much) in his throat, holding him until he could at least draw breath, and realistically, as Tucker's fingers carded lazily through his hair and their heartbeats slowed down together, Dash knew he hadn't "suddenly" fallen in love at all.

He'd _been_ in love with Tucker.

Before the sex. Before the panicked call that had gotten all this started. Fuck, before he'd asked Tucker _out_ (Kwan had been right?), which, of course, begged the question again: when _had_ this happened?

As they finally drew apart, making quick work of the minor necessary cleaning processes, Dash turned that question over and over again, feeding it back and forth through his mind as he watched Tucker stretch and yawn and resituate himself when they made it back to the bed. But no amount of thinking bore fruit. As far as he could tell, there was no "when;" it had just _happened_, somewhere along the line, and there was no way in hell he could back out of it now, even if he wanted to.

Maybe the when didn't even matter.

It occurred to him, then, that maybe he actually _ought_ to say something, and when they settled together under the sheets, Tucker on his stomach and Dash on his side to his right, resting a lazy hand in the small of his boyfriend's back, the concept became viciously tempting all over again. He wanted to reach out, run a thumb over Tucker's cheek, say _anything_, but…

Tucker yawned widely, nuzzling deeper into the pillow for a brief second before cocking his head, just enough to toss Dash a one-eyed glance; he'd taken his glasses off for sleep, and he looked ridiculously cute, half buried in the pillow and owl-eyed without his specs. "Are you alri-"

"I'm fine," Dash said, perhaps too quickly, and then, blushing, he leaned in, brushing a feather light kiss over Tucker's forehead to make up for it. Without moving completely back out, he re-emphasized, "I'm great…" and gave in to the desire to brush his finger over Tucker's cheek, prizing the subtle swell of heat there.

"That's good. We should, you know…do this more often," Tucker suggested abashedly, telling half the sentence to the pillow, but Dash made it out just fine and smiled.

"Yeah, I think so," he agreed.

"How long do we have?"

Dash blinked, confused.

"Like, I mean…I assume your parents aren't home right now, right?" Tucker asked, and realization dawned.

"Oh, yeah, umm…" Dash shut his eyes, thinking, "…noonish, or…something, you know." When he opened them again, Tucker was nodding around the beginnings of another yawn.

"Mmkay, good, we should be…" There went the yawn, "…fine."

"Yeah," he agreed, and '_Now_,' he thought. Just say it:_ 'I love you, goodnight._' Or, hell: '_Goodnight, I love you_.' Either worked. Either would be fine. Just _say_ one. It would be easy. It would be quick. It would make _sense_. But…Tucker hadn't said anything.

'_Maybe he's shy?_'

Maybe he didn't feel the same.

'_No,_' Dash instantly negated that, '_he obviously feels __**something**_.' Okay, sure, maybe not the _same_. Maybe not as _much_. But something. Dash wasn't that dumb, _or_ that insecure. But then, the bigger, realer fear: '_If I can't even convince him I think he looks adorable…how am I supposed to convince him I've fallen in love with him?_'

'_What if he doesn't __**believe**__ me…?_' To think that Tucker might think, even for a second, that he'd make such a confession _just _to humour him…

"G'night," Tucker murmured softly, sleepily, and Dash's heart warmed and knotted as one.

"Night," he returned as quietly, and pecked Tucker's cheek one last time before succumbing to the sheets. '_Later_,' he thought. Later, he'd say something. Later, when Tucker trusted him more. Later, when they were both more secure about their relationship. Later, when there wouldn't be any question…

Dash fell asleep on his side, his head on his pillow and his hand on Tucker's back, cradling in his heart a fragile, infantile emotion that he'd never before harboured for anyone. He would wake with Tucker tucked snugly against his chest, his arm draped possessively over the smaller boy's waist and their fingers loosely tangled at chest level, pink sunshine fighting its way through his blinds.

* * *

**A/N: **You can consider that my "use condoms, kids" good deed message for the…year. I'll probably never mention them again, but despite my brother and boyfriend _both_ informing me that they were among the most unsexy things to mention possible…I sort of felt obligated. I also don't get that sense from them, but whatever.

On another note, I HOPE YOU DON'T THINK THAT'S THE END (I figured I'd caps it for emphasis), because guess what? It's NOT. And I mean, seriously, if you're satisfied with that as an ending…then I have not done my job. I mean come on, don't you want _love confessions_, guys? And, and…well, okay, whatever. The point is: this isn't over.

Things you can expect to be addressed before it IS over: Tucker's dad (he doesn't know yet, remember?), the rest of the school (they're not officially out yet, still), Dash's parents (neither of them know…yet), and, of course, out loud cofessions of their _feelings_…erm, eventually. If you really want to get a feel for how much longer that means we have, think of it on the timeline of a school year. Their relationship started semi-kina-sorta near the beginning of the year, and this story is basically over by the time school lets out. I would expect the ending within ten chapters easily, though, I don't think we have THAT far to go, but we do definitely have ground to cover. Mm'kay?

Please, please, please don't abandon me just because they finally had sex…there MIGHT even be more sex down along the road (in fact, knowing me, that is…a very fair possibility), and there will definitely be more boy love interaction, but the point of this story was NOT just to get them to bed each other, so…yeah.

Oh, and guys, _guess what? _I actually made it within my at-most-a-month deadline! BWAHAHAHAHA-*cough*-*ahem*-yeahhhhh…only by a day, but whatever. I still made it. Okay, I'm proud, even if you aren't. v.v


End file.
